W.  D.  HO  WELLS 


<•- 


t     RARY" 

UNIVERSITY   OF 
CALIFORNIA 


i, 


//*• 


<- 


/- 


Their  Husbands'  Wives 


EDITED   BY 
WILLIAM    DEANlHOWELLS 

ANDU 
HENRY   MILLS  ALDEN 


Harper  &  Brothers  Publishers 

New  York  and  London 

J906 


Copyright,  1904,1905, 1906, by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS.  ] 

All  right*  rtstrved. 
Published  March,  1906. 


Introduction 

IN  a  certain  sense  all  wives  are  Their 
Husbands'  Wives,  but  in  naming  their 
little  collection  of  tales,  of  varied  inter 
est  but  of  single  purport,  the  editors 
have  had  peculiarly  in  mind  those  wives 
who  perpetuate  in  the  latest  woman  the 
ideal  of  the  earliest.  It  is  an  ideal  which 
shines  alike  through  the  tender  humor 
of  Mr.  Clemens's  charming  fantasy  of 
the  primal  world,  Mrs.  Stuart  Phelps's 
romance  of  our  great,  every-day,  latter- 
day  life,  Mrs.  Roach's  interesting  study 
of  the  truest  and  most  modern  of 
types,  Mr.  Pottle's  rather  grimly  faith 
ful  portrayal  of  a  situation  far  more 
frequent  in  marriage  than  has  been 
owned,  Mr.  Hibbard's  delicate  divination 
of  the  secret  of  a  woman's  soul,  and  Mrs. 
Ellery  Channing's  hopeful  and  delight 
ful  hypothesis  in  a  region  of  the  heart 
perhaps  too  little  explored  by  practical 
science. 


M9Q648 


Introduction 

What  is  this  ideal,  then,  in  a  word? 
But  it  cannot  be  put  in  a  word.  It  can 
only  be  suggested  in  two  or  three.  We 
ourselves  should  say  it  was  that  of  a 
sort  of  Impatient  Grizzle,  who  achieves 
through  a  fine,  rebellious  self-sacrifice 
all  the  best  results  of  the  old  Patient 
one's  subjection.  It  is  the  wife  who  has 
her  will  only  the  better  to  walk  in  her 
husband's  way.  That,  or  something  like 
it,  is  the  ideal  of  this  group  of  delight 
ful  women,  so  differently  dutiful,  so 
freshly,  so  winningly,  so  defiantly,  at 
times,  devoted. 

It  follows  that  they  are  all  American 
women,  not  excepting  Eve  herself,  whose 
Eden  now  stretches  from  the  Atlantic  to 
the  Pacific,  and  from  the  Great  Lakes 
to  the  Gulf.  Her  wifely  instinct  was 
prophetic  of  the  only  daughters  of  hers 
who  are  as  free  and  natural  as  she  and 
who  seem  not  the  less  constant  in  their 
allegiance  to  their  several  Adams  be 
cause  they  have  always  within  their  reach 
the  baleful  deliverance  of  the  divorce- 
c-ourts.  Their  bond  is  the  passion  of 
which  fiction  is  never  tired,  and  which 
in  the  home  of  its  least  restraint  has 
been  turned  here  to  the  light  with  a  dif 
ferent  opalescence  from  each  incidence 
of  the  skies.  \y.  D.  II. 


MARK  TWAIN 

EVE'S  DIARY 

ELIZABETH   STUART   PHELPS 

COVERED  EMBERS 

ABBY  MEGUIRE  ROACH 

LIFE'S  ACCOLADE 

EMERY   POTTLE 

THE  BOND 

GEORGE   HIBBARD 

THE  EYES  OF  AFFECTION 

GRACE   ELLERY  CHANNING 
"THE  MARRIAGE  QUESTION" 


Eve's  Diary 

Translated  from  the  Original 

BY   MARK   TWAIN 


SATUKDAY.— I  am  almost  a  whole 
day  old,  now.  I  arrived  yesterday. 
That  is  as  it  seems  to  me.  And  it 
must  be  so,  for  if  there  was  a  day-before- 
yesterday  I  was  not  there  when  it  hap 
pened,  or  I  should  remember  it.  It  could 
be,  of  course,  that  it  did  happen,  and  that 
I  was  not  noticing.  Very  well;  I  will 
be  very  watchful,  now,  and  if  any  day- 
before-yesterdays  happen  I  will  make  a 
note  of  it.  It  will  be  best  to  start  right 
and  not  let  the  record  get  confused,  for 
some  instinct  tells  me  that  these  details 
are  going  to  be  important  to  the  his 
torian  some  day.  For  I  feel  like  an 
experiment,  I  feel  exactly  like  an  experi 
ment,  it  would  be  impossible  for  a  person 
to  feel  more  like  an  experiment  than  I 
do,  and  so  I  am  coming  to  feel  convinced 
that  that  is  what  I  am — an  experiment; 
just  an  experiment,  and  nothing  more. 


2  Harper's  Novelettes 

Thrn  if  I  am  an  experiment,  am  I  tho 
whole  of  it?  No,  I  think  not;  I  think 
the  rest  of  it  is  part  of  it.  I  am  the 
main  part  of  it,  but  I  think  the  rest  of 
it  has  its  share  in  the  matter.  Is  my 
position  assured,  or  do  I  have  to  watch 
it  and  take  care  of  it?  The  latter,  per 
haps.  Some  instinct  tells  me  that  eternal 
vigilance  is  the  price  of  supremacy. 
[That  is  a  good  phrase,  I  think,  for  one 
so  young.] 

Everything  looks  better  to-day  than  it 
did  yesterday.  In  the  rush  of  finishing 
up  yesterday,  the  mountains  were  left  in 
a  ragged  condition,  and  some  of  the 
plains  were  so  cluttered  with  rubbish  and 
remnants  that  the  aspects  were  quite  dis 
tressing.  Noble  and  beautiful  works  of 
art  should  not  be  subjected  to  haste; 
and  this  majestic  new  world  is  indeed  a 
most  noble  and  beautiful  work.  And 
certainly  marvellously  near  to  being  per 
fect,  notwithstanding  the  shortness  of 
the  time.  There  are  too  many  stars  in 
some  places  and  not  enough  in  others, 
but  that  can  be  remedied  presently,  no 
doubt.  The  moon  got  loose  last  night, 
and  slid  down  and  fell  out  of  the  scheme 
—a  very  great  loss;  it  breaks  my  heart 
to  think  of  it.  There  isn't  another  thing 
among  the  ornaments  and  decorations 


Eve's  Diary  3 

that  is  comparable  to  it  for  beauty  and 
finish.  It  should  have  been  fastened  bet 
ter.  If  we  can  only  get  it  back  again — 

But  of  course  there  is  no  telling  where 
it  went  to.  And  besides,  whoever  gets  it 
will  hide  it;  I  know  it  because  I  would 
do  it  myself.  I  believe  I  can  be  honest 
in  all  other  matters,  but  I  already  begin 
to  realize  that  the  core  and  centre  of  my 
nature  is  love  of  the  beautiful,  a  passion 
for  the  beautiful,  and  that  it  would  not 
be  safe  to  trust  me  with  a  moon  that 
belonged  to  another  person  and  that  per 
son  didn't  know  I  had  it.  I  could  give 
up  a  moon  that  I  found  in  the  day 
time,  because  I  should  be  afraid  some 
one  was  looking;  but  if  I  found  it  in  the 
dark,  I  am  sure  I  should  find  some  kind 
of  an  excuse  for  not  saying  anything 
about  it.  For  I  do  love  moons,  they  are 
so  pretty  and  so  romantic.  I  wish  we 
had  five  or  six;  I  would  never  go  to  bed; 
I  should  never  get  tired  lying  on  the 
moss-bank  and  looking  up  at  them. 

Stars  are  good,  too.  I  wish  I  could 
get  some  to  put  in  my  hair.  But  I  sup 
pose  I  never  can.  You  would  be  sur 
prised  to  find  how  far  off  they  are,  for 
they  do  not  look  it.  When  they  first 
showed,  last  night,  I  tried  to  knock  some 
down  with  a  pole,  but  it  didn't  reach, 


4  Harper's  Novelettes 

which  astonished  me;  then  T  tried  clods 
till  I  was  all  tired  out,  but  I  never  got 
one.  It  was  because  I  am  left-handed 
and  cannot  throw  pood.  Even  when  I 
aimed  at  the  one  I  wasn't  after  I  couldn't 
hit  the  other  one,  though  I  did  make  some 
close  shots,  for  I  saw  the  black  blot  of 
the  clod  sail  right  into  the  midst  of  the 
golden  clusters  forty  or  fifty  times,  just 
barely  missing  them,  and  if  I  could  have 
held  out  a  little  longer  maybo  I  could 
have  got  one. 

So  I  cried  a  little,  which  was  natural, 
T  suppose,  for  one  of  my  age,  and  after 
I  was  rested  I  got  a  basket  and  started 
for  a  place  on  the  extreme  rim  of  the 
circle,  where  the  stars  were  close  to  the 
ground  and  I  could  get  them  with  my 
hands,  which  would  be  better,  anyway, 
because  I  could  gather  them  tenderly 
then,  and  not  break  them.  But  it  was 
farther  than  I  thought,  and  at  last  I  had 
to  give  it  up;  I  was  so  tired  I  couldn't 
drag  my  feet  another  step;  and  besides, 
they  were  sore  and  hurt  me  very  much. 

I  couldn't  get  back  home;  it  was  too 
far  and  turning  cold;  but  I  found  some 
tigers  and  nestled  in  amongst  them  and 
was  most  adorably  comfortable,  and  their 
breath  was  sweet  and  pleasant,  because 
they  live  on  strawberries.  I  had  never 


Eve's  Diary  5 

seen  a  tiger  before,  but  T  knew  them  in 
a  minute  by  the  stripes.  If  I  could  have 
one  of  those  skins,  it  would  make  a  love 
ly  gown. 

To-day  I  am  getting  better  ideas  about 
distances.  I  was  so  eager  to  get  hold 
of  every  pretty  thing  that  I  giddily 
grabbed  for  it,  sometimes  when  it  was 
too  far  off,  and  sometimes  when  it  was 
but  six  inches  away  but  seemed  a  foot — 
alas,  with  thorns  between!  I  learned  a 
lesson;  also  I  made  an  axiom,  all  out  of 
my  own  head — my  very  first  one:  The 
scratched  Experiment  shuns  the  thorn. 
I  think  it  is  a  very  good  one  for  one 
so  young. 

I  followed  the  other  Experiment  around, 
yesterday  afternoon,  at  a  distance,  to  see 
what  it  might  be  for,  if  I  could.  But  I 
was  not  able  to  make  out.  I  think  it  is 
a  man.  I  had  never  seen  a  man,  but  it 
looked  like  one,  and  I  feel  sure  that  that 
is  what  it  is.  I  realize  that  I  feel  more 
curiosity  about  it  than  about  any  of  the 
other  reptiles.  Tf  it  is  a  reptile,  and  I 
suppose  it  is;  for  it  has  frowsy  hair  and 
blue  eyes,  and  looks  like  a  reptile.  It  has 
no  hips;  it  tapers  like  a  carrot;  when  it 
stands,  it  spreads  itself  apart  like  a  der 
rick;  so  I  think  it  is  a  reptile,  though  it 
may  be  architecture. 


6  Harper's  Novelettes 

I  was  afraid  of  it  at  first,  and  started 
to  run  every  time  it  turned  around,  for 
I  thought  it  was  going  to  chase  me;  but 
by  and  by  I  found  it  was  only  trying  to 
get  away,  so  after  that  I  was  not  timid 
any  more,  but  tracked  it  along,  several 
hours,  about  twenty  yards  behind,  which 
made  it  nervous  and  unhappy.  At  last 
it  was  a  good  deal  worried,  and  climbed 
a  tree.  I  waited  a  good  while,  then  gave 
it  up  and  went  home. 

To-day  the  same  thing  over.  I've  got 
it  up  the  tree  again. 

Sunday. — It  is  up  there  yet.  Resting, 
apparently.  But  that  is  a  subterfuge: 
Sunday  isn't  the  day  of  rest;  Saturday 
is  appointed  for  that.  It  looks  to  me 
like  a  creature  that  is  more  interested 
in  resting  than  in  anything  else.  It 
would  tire  me  to  rest  so  much.  It  tires 
me  just  to  sit  around  and  watch  the  tree. 
I  do  wonder  what  it  is  for;  I  never  see  it 
do  anything. 

They  returned  the  moon  last  night,  and 
I  was  so  happy !  I  think  it  is  very  honest 
of  them.  It  slid  down  and  fell  off  again, 
but  I  was  not  distressed ;  there  is  no  need 
to  worry  when  one  has  that  kind  of  neigh 
bors;  they  will  fetch  it  back.  I  wish 
I  could  do  something  to  show  my  ap- 


Eve's  Diary  7 

preciation.  I  would  like  to  send  them 
some  stars,  for  we  have  more  than  we 
can  use.  I  mean  I,  not  we,  for  I  can 
see  that  the  reptile  cares  nothing  for 
such  things. 

It  has  low  tastes,  and  is  not  kind. 
When  I  went  there  yesterday  evening  in 
the  gloaming  it  had  crept  down  and  was 
trying  to  catch  the  little  speckled  fishes 
that  play  in  the  pool,  and  I  had  to  clod 
it  to  make  it  go  up  the  tree  again  and 
let  them  alone.  I  wonder  if  that  is  what 
it  is  for  ?  Hasn't  it  any  heart  ?  Hasn't  it 
any  compassion  for  those  little  creatures? 
Can  it  be  that  it  was  designed  and  manu 
factured  for  such  ungentle  work  ?  It  has 
the  look  of  it.  One  of  the  clods  took 
it  back  of  the  ear,  and  it  used  language. 
It  gave  me  a  thrill,  for  it  was  the  first 
time  I  had  ever  heard  speech,  except  my 
own.  I  did  not  understand  the  words, 
but  they  seemed  expressive. 

When  I  found  it  could  talk  I  felt  a 
new  interest  in  it,  for  I  love  to  talk;  I 
talk  all  day,  and  in  my  sleep,  too,  and  I 
am  very  interesting,  but  if  I  had  another 
to  talk  to  I  could  be  twice  as  interesting, 
and  would  never  stop,  if  desired. 

If  this  reptile  is  a  man,  it  isn't  an  it, 
is  it?  That  wouldn't  be  grammatical, 
would  it?  I  think  it  would  be  he.  I 


Harper's  Novelettes 

think  so.  In  that  case  one  would  parse 
it  thus:  nominative,  he;  dative,  him; 
possessive,  his'n.  Well,  I  will  consider 
it  a  man  and  call  it  he  until  it  turns  out 
to  be  something  else.  This  will  be  hand 
ier  than  having  so  many  uncertainties. 

Next  week  Sunday. — All  the  week  I 
tagged  around  after  him  and  tried  to 
get  acquainted.  I  had  to  do  the  talking, 
because  he  was  shy,  but  I  didn't  mind  it. 
He  seemed  pleased  to  have  me  around, 
and  I  used  the  sociable  "  we "  a  good 
deal,  because  it  seemed  to  flatter  him 
to  be  included. 

Wednesday. — We  are  getting  along  very 
well  indeed,  now,  and  getting  better  and 
better  acquainted.  He  does  not  try  to 
avoid  me  any  more,  which  is  a  good  sign, 
and  shows  that  he  likes  to  have  me  with 
him.  That  pleases  me,  and  I  study  to 
be  useful  to  him  in  every  .way  I  can,  so 
as  to  increase  his  regard.  During  the 
last  day  or  two  I  have  taken  all  the  work 
of  naming  things  off  his  hands,  and  this 
has  been  a  great  relief  to  him,  for  he 
has  no  gift  in  that  line,  and  is  evidently 
very  grateful.  He  can't  think  of  a  ra 
tional  name  to  save  him,  but  I  do  not  let 
him  see  that  I  am  aware  of  his  defect. 
Whenever  a  new  creature  comes  along 
I  name  it  before  he  has  time  to  expose 


Eve's  Diary  9 

himself  by  an  awkward  silence.  In  this 
way  I  have  saved  him  many  embarrass 
ments.  I  have  no  defect  like  his.  The 
minute  I  set  eyes  on  an  animal  I  know 
what  it  is.  I  don't  have  to  reflect  a  mo 
ment;  the  right  name  comes  out  instant 
ly,  just  as  if  it  were  an  inspiration,  as  no 
doubt  it  is,  for  I  am  sure  it  wasn't  in 
me  half  a  minute  before.  I  seem  to  know 
just  by  the  shape  of  the  creature  and  the 
way  it  acts  what  animal  it  is. 

When  the  dodo  came  along  he  thought 
it  was  a  wildcat — I  saw  it  in  his  eye. 
But  I  saved  him.  And  I  was  careful  not 
to  do  it  in  a  way  that  could  hurt  his 
pride.  I  just  spoke  up  in  a  quite  natural 
way  of  pleased  surprise,  and  not  as  if  I 
was  dreaming  of  conveying  information, 
and  said,  "Well,  I  do  declare  if  there 
isn't  the  dodo!"  I  explained — without 
seeming  to  be  explaining — how  I  knew 
it  for  a  dodo,  and  although  I  thought 
maybe  he  was  a  little  piqued  that  I  knew 
the  creature  when  he  didn't,  it  was  quite 
evident  that  he  admired  me.  That  was 
very  agreeable,  and  I  thought  of  it  more 
than  once  with  gratification  before  I  slept. 
How  little  a  thing  can  make  us  happy 
when  we  feel  that  we  have  earned  it. 

Thursday. — My  first  sorrow.  Yester 
day  he  avoided  me  and  seemed  to  wish 


10  Harper's  Novelettes 

1  would  not  talk  to  him.  I  could  not 
believe  it,  and  thought  there  was  some 
mistake,  for  I  loved  to  be  with  him,  and 
loved  to  hear  him  talk,  and  so  how  could 
it  be  that  he  could  feel  unkind  toward  mo 
when  I  had  not  done  anything?  But  at 
last  it  seemed  true,  so  I  went  away  and  sat 
lonely  in  the  place  where  I  first  saw  him 
the  morning  that  we  were  made  and  I 
did  not  know  what  ho  was  and  was  in 
different  about  him;  but  now  it  was  a 
mournful  place,  and  every  little  thing 
spoke  of  him,  and  my  heart  was  very 
sore.  I  did  not  know  why  very  clearly, 
for  it  was  a  new  feeling;  I  had  not  ex 
perienced  it  before,  and  it  was  all  a  mys 
tery,  and  I  could  not  make  it  out. 

But  when  night  came  I  could  not  bear 
the  lonesomeness,  and  went  to  the  new 
shelter  which  he  has  built,  to  ask  him 
what  I  had  done  that  was  wrong  and  how 
I  could  mend  it  and  get  back  his  kind 
ness  again;  but  he  put  me  out  in  the 
rain,  and  it  was  my  first  sorrow. 

Sunday. — It  is  pleasant  again,  now, 
and  I  am  happy;  but  those  were  heavy 
days;  I  do  not  think  of  them  when  I 
can  help  it. 

I  tried  to  get  him  some  of  those  apples, 
but  I  cannot  learn  to  throw  straight.  I 
failed,  but  I  think  the  good  intention 


Evefs  Diary  n 

pleased  him.  They  are  forbidden,  and 
he  says  I  shall  come  to  harm;  but  so  I 
come  to  harm  through  pleasing  him  why 
shall  I  care  for  that  harm? 

Monday. — This  morning  I  told  him 
my  name,  hoping  it  would  interest  him. 
But  he  did  not  care  for  it.  It  is  strange. 
If  he  should  tell  me  his  name,  I  would 
care.  I  think  it  would  be  pleasanter  in 
my  ears  than  any  other  sound. 

He  talks  very  little.  Perhaps  it  is  be 
cause  he  is  not  bright,  and  is  sensitive 
about  it  and  wishes  to  conceal  it.  It  is 
such  a  pity  that  he  should  feel  so,  for 
brightness  is  nothing;  it  is  in  the  heart 
that  the  values  lie.  I  wish  I  could  make 
him  understand  that  a  loving  good  heart 
is  riches,  and  riches  enough,  and  that 
without  it  intellect  is  poverty. 

Although  he  talks  so  little  he  has  quite 
a  considerable  vocabulary.  This  morning 
he  used  a  surprisingly  good  word.  He 
evidently  recognized,  himself,  that  it  was 
a  good  one,  for  he  worked  it  in  twice 
afterward,  casually.  It  was  not  good 
casual  art,  still  it  showed  that  he  pos 
sesses  a  certain  quality  of  perception. 
Without  a  doubt  that  seed  can  be  made 
to  grow,  if  cultivated. 

Where  did  he  get  that  word?  I  do  not 
think  I  have  ever  used  it. 


12  Harper's  Novelettes 

No,  he  took  no  interest  in  my  name. 
I  tried  to  hide  my  disappointment,  but 
I  suppose  I  did  not  succeed.  I  went 
away  and  sat  on  the  moss-bank  with  my 
feet  in  the  water.  It  is  where  I  go  when 
I  hunger  for  companionship,  some  one 
to  look  at,  some  one  to  talk  to.  It  is 
not  enough — that  lovely  white  body  paint 
ed  there  in  the  pool — but  it  is  something, 
and  something  is  better  than  utter  loneli 
ness.  It  talks  when  I  talk ;  it  is  sad  when 
I  am  sad;  it  comforts  me  with  its  sym 
pathy  ;  it  says,  "  Do  not  be  downhearted, 
you  poor  friendless  girl;  I  will  be  your 
friend."  It  is  a  good  friend  to  me,  and 
my  only  one ;  it  is  my  sister. 

That  first  time  that  she  forsook  me! 
ah,  I  shall  never  forget  that  —  never, 
never.  My  heart  was  lead  in  my  body! 
I  said,  "  She  was  all  I  had,  and  now  she 
is  gone !"  In  my  despair  I  said,  "  Break, 
my  heart;  I  cannot  bear  my  life  any 
more!"  and  hid  my  face  in  my  hands, 
and  there  was  no  solace  for  me.  And 
when  I  took  them  away,  after  a  little, 
there  she  was  again,  white  and  shining 
and  boautiful,  and  I  sprang  into  her  arms ! 

That  was  perfect  happiness;  I  had 
known  happiness  before,  but  it  was  not 
like  this,  which  was  ecstasy.  I  never 
doubted  her  afterwards.  Sometimes  she 


Eve's  Diary  13 

stayed  away — maybe  an  hour,  maybe  al 
most  the  whole  day,  but  I  waited  and  did 
not  doubt;  I  said,  "She  is  busy,  or  she 
is  gone  a  journey,  but  she  will  come." 
And  it  was  so :  she  always  did.  At  night 
she  would  not  come  if  it  was  dark,  for 
she  was  a  timid  little  thing;  but  if  there 
was  a  moon  she  would  come.  I  am  not 
afraid  of  the  dark,  but  she  is  younger 
than  I  am;  she  was  born  after  I  was. 
Many  and  many  are  the  visits  I  have 
paid  her;  she  is  my  comfort  and  my 
refuge  when  my  life  is  hard — and  it 
is  mainly  that, 

Tuesday. — All  the  morning  I  was  at 
work  improving  the  estate;  and  I  pur 
posely  kept  away  from  him  in  the  hope 
that  he  would  get  lonely  and  come.  But 
he  did  not. 

At  noon  I  stopped  for  the  day  and  took 
my  'recreation  by  flitting  all  about  with 
the  bees  and  the  butterflies  and  revelling 
in  the  flowers,  those  beautiful  creatures 
that  catch  the  smile  of  God  out  of  the 
sky  and  preserve  it!  I  gathered  them, 
and  made  them  into  wreaths  and  garlands 
and  clothed  myself  in  them  whilst  I  ate 
my  luncheon — apples,  of  course;  then  I 
sat  in  the  shade  and  wished  and  waited. 
But  he  did  not  come. 

But  no  matter.     Nothing  would  have 


14  Harper's  Novelettes 

come  of  it,  for  he  does  not  care  for  flow 
ers.  He  calls  them  rubbish,  and  cannot 
tell  one  from  another,  and  thinks  it  is 
superior  to  feel  like  that.  He  does  not 
care  for  me,  he  does  not  care  for  flowers, 
he  does  not  care  for  the  painted  sky  at 
eventide — is  there  anything  he  does  care 
for,  except  building  shacks  to  coop  him 
self  up  in  from  the  good  clean  rain,  and 
thumping  the  melons,  and  sampling  the 
grapes,  and  fingering  the  fruit  on  the 
trees,  to  see  how  those  properties  are 
coming  along? 

I  laid  a  dry  stick  on  the  ground  and 
tried  to  bore  a  hole  in  it  with  another 
one,  in  order  to  carry  out  a  scheme  that 
I  had,  and  soon  I  got  an  awful  fright. 
A  thin,  transparent  bluish  film  rose  out 
of  the  hole,  and  I  dropped  everything 
and  ran!  I  thought  it  was  a  spirit,  and 
I  was  so  frightened!  But  I  looked  back, 
and  it  was  not  coming;  so  I  leaned  against 
a  rock  and  rested  and  panted,  and  let 
my  limbs  go  on  trembling  until  they  got 
steady  again;  then  I  crept  warily  back, 
alert,  watching,  and  ready  to  fly  if  there 
was  occasion ;  and  when  I  was  come  near, 
I  parted  the  branches  of  a  rose-bush  and 
peeped  through — wishing  the  man  was 
about,  I  was  looking  so  cunning  and 
pretty — but  the  sprite  was  gone.  I  went 


Eve's  Diary  15 

there,  and  there  was  a  pinch  of  delicate 
pink  dust  in  the  hole.  I  put  my  finger 
in,  to  feel  it,  and  said  ouch!  and  took 
it  out  again.  It  was  a  cruel  pain.  I  put 
ray  finger  in  my  mouth ;  and  by  standing 
first  on  one  foot  and  then  the  other, 
and  grunting,  I  presently  eased  my  mis 
ery;  then  I  was  full  of  interest,  and 
began  to  examine. 

I  was  curious  to  know  what  the  pink 
dust  was.  Suddenly  the  name  of  it  oc 
curred  to  me,  though  I  had  never  heard 
of  it  before.  It  was  fire!  I  was  as  cer 
tain  of  it  as  a  person  could  be  of  any 
thing  in  the  world.  So  without  hesita 
tion  I  named  it  that — fire. 

I  had  created  something  that  didn't 
exist  before;  I  had  added  a  new  thing 
to  the  world's  uncountable  properties; 
I  realized  this,  and  was  proud  of  my 
achievement,  and  was  going  to  run  and 
find  him  and  tell  him  about  it,  thinking 
to  raise  myself  in  his  esteem, — but  I 
reflected,  and  did  not  do  it.  No — he 
would  not  care  for  it.  He  would  ask 
what  it  was  good  for,  and  what  could 
I  answer?  for  if  it  was  not  good  for 
something,  but  only  beautiful,  mere 
ly  beautiful — 

So  I  sighed,  and  did  not  go.  For  it 
wasn't  good  for  anything;  it  could  not 


1 6  Harper's  Novelettes 

build  a  shack,  it  could  not  improve 
melons,  it  could  not  hurry  a  fruit  crop; 
it  was  useless,  it  was  a  foolishness  and  a 
vanity;  he  would  despise  it  and  say  cut 
ting  words.  But  to  me  it  was  not  despica 
ble;  I  said,  "Oh,  you  fire,  I  love  you, 
you  dainty  pink  creature,  for  you  are 
beautiful — and  that  is  enough!"  and  was 
going  to  gather  it  to  my  breast.  But 
refrained.  Then  I  made  another  maxim 
out  of  my  own  head,  though  it  was  so 
nearly  like  the  first  one  that  I  was  afraid 
it  was  only  a  plagiarism :  "  The  burnt 
Experiment  shuns  the  fire." 

I  wrought  again ;  and  when  I  had  made 
a  good  deal  of  fire-dust  I  emptied  it  into 
a  handful  of  dry  brown  grass,  intending 
to  carry  it  home  and  keep  it  always  and 
play  with  it;  but  the  wind  struck  it  and 
it  sprayed  up  and  spat  out  at  me  fiercely, 
and  I  dropped  it  and  ran.  When  I  looked 
back  the  blue  spirit  was  towering  up  and 
stretching  and  rolling  away  like  a  cloud, 
and  instantly  I  thought  of  the  name  of  it 
— smoke! — though,  upon  my  word,  I  had 
never  heard  of  smoke  before. 

Soon,  brilliant  yellow  and  rod  flares 
shot  up  through  the  smoke,  and  I  named 
them  in  an  instant — flames! — and  I  was 
right,  too,  though  these  were  the  very 
first  flames  that  had  ever  been  in  the 


Eve's  Diary  17 

world.  They  climbed  the  trees,  they 
flashed  splendidly  in  and  out  of  the  vast 
and  increasing  volume  of  tumbling 
smoke,  and  I  had  to  clap  my  hands  and 
laugh  and  dance  in  my  rapture,  it  was 
so  new  and  strange  and  so  wonderful 
and  so  beautiful! 

He  came  running,  and  stopped  and 
gazed,  and  said  not  a  word  for  many 
minutes.  Then  he  asked  what  it  was. 
Ah,  it  was  too  bad  that  he  should  ask 
such  a  direct  question.  I  had  to  answer 
it,  of  course,  and  I  did.  I  said  it  was 
fire.  If  it  annoyed  him  that  I  should 
know  and  he  must  ask,  that  was  not  my 
fault;  I  had  no  desire  to  annoy  him. 
After  a  pause  he  asked, 

"How  did  it  come?" 

Another  direct  question,  and  it  also 
had  to  have  a  direct  answer. 

"  I  made  it." 

The  fire  was  travelling  farther  and 
farther  off.  He  went  to  the  edge  of 
the  burnt  place  and  stood  looking  down, 
and  said, 

"What  are  these?" 

"  Fire-coals." 

He  picked  up  one  to  examine  it,  but 
changed  his  mind  arid  put  it  down 
again.  Then  ho  went  away.  Nothing 
interests  him. 


1 8  Harper's  Novelettes 

But  I  was  interested.  There  were 
ashes,  gray  and  soft  and  delicate  and 
pretty — I  knew  what  they  were  at  once. 
And  the  embers;  I  knew  the  embers,  too. 
T  found  my  apples,  and  raked  them  out, 
and  was  glad;  for  I  am  very  young  and 
iny  appetite  is  active.  But  I  was  dis 
appointed;  they  were  all  burst  open  and 
spoiled.  Spoiled  apparently;  but  it  was 
not  so;  they  were  better  than  raw  ones. 
Fire  is  beautiful;  some  day  it  will  be 
useful,  I  think. 

Friday. — I  saw  him  again,  for  a  mo 
ment,  last  Monday  at  nightfall,  but  only 
for  a  moment.  I  was  hoping  he  would 
praise  me  for  trying  to  improve  the 
estate,  for  I  had  meant  well  and  had 
worked  hard.  But  he  was  not  pleased, 
and  turned  away  and  left  me.  He  was 
also  displeased  on  another  account:  I 
tried  once  more  to  persuade  him  to  stop 
going  over  the  Falls.  That  was  because 
the  fire  had  revealed  to  me  a  new  pas 
sion — quite  new,  and  distinctly  different 
from  love,  grief,  and  those  others  which 
I  had  already  discovered — fear.  And  it 
is  horrible! — I  wish  I  had  never  dis 
covered  it;  it  gives  me  dark  moments,  it 
spoils  my  happiness,  it  makes  me  shiver 
and  tremble  and  shudder.  But  I  could 


Eve's  Diary  19 

not  persuade  him,  for  he  has  not  dis 
covered  fear  yet,  and  so  ho  could  not  un 
derstand  me. 

Tuesday — Wednesday — Thursday — and 
to-day:  all  without  seeing  him.  It  is  a 
long  time  to  be  alone;  still,  it  is  better 
to  be  alone  than  unwelcome. 

I  had  to  have  company — I  was  made 
for  it,  I  think, — so  I  made  friends  with 
the  animals.  They  are  just  charming, 
and  they  have  the  kindest  disposition  and 
the  politest  ways;  they  never  look  sour, 
they  never  let  you  feel  that  you  are 
intruding,  they  smile  at  you  and  wag 
their  tail,  if  they've  got  one,  and  they 
are  always  ready  for  a  romp  or  an  excur 
sion  or  anything  you  want  to  propose. 
I  think  they  are  perfect  gentlemen.  All 
these  days  we  have  had  such  good  times, 
and  it  hasn't  been  lonesome  for  me,  ever. 
Lonesome !  No,  I  should  say  not.  Why, 
there's  always  a  swarm  of  them  around 
— sometimes  as  much  as  four  or  five 
acres — you  can't  count  them;  and  when 
you  stand  on  a  rock  in  the  midst  and 
look  out  over  the  furry  expanse  it  is  so 
mottled  and  splashed  and  gay  with  color 
and  frisking  sheen  and  sun-flash,  and  so 
rippled  with  stripes,  that  you  might  think 
it  was  a  lake,  only  you  know  it  isn't ;  and 
there's  storms  of  sociable  birds,  and  hur- 


20  Harper's  Novelettes 

ricanes  of  whirring  wings;  and  when  Iho 
sun  strikes  all  that  feathery  commotion, 
you  have  a  blazing  up  of  all  the  colors 
you  can  think  of,  enough  to  put  your 
eyes  out. 

We  have  made  long  excursions,  and  I 
have  seen  a  great  deal  of  the  world; 
almost  all  of  it,  I  think;  and  so  I  am 
the  first  traveller,  and  the  only  one. 
When  we  are  on  the  march,  it  is  an 
imposing  sight — there's  nothing  like  it 
anywhere.  For  comfort  I  ride  a  tiger 
or  a  leopard,  because  it  is  soft  and  has 
a  round  back  that  fits  me,  and  because 
they  are  such  pretty  animals;  but  for 
long  distance  or  for  scenery  I  ride  the 
elephant.  He  hoists  me  up  with  his 
trunk,  but  I  can  get  off  myself;  when 
we  are  ready  to  camp,  he  sits  and  I  slide 
down  the  back  way. 

The  birds  and  animals  are  all  friendly 
to  each  other,  and  there  are  no  disputes 
about  anything.  They  all  talk,  and  they 
all  talk  to  me,  but  it  must  be  a  foreign 
language,  for  I  cannot  make  out  a  word 
they  say;  yet  they  often  understand  me 
when  I  talk  back,  particularly  the  dog 
and  the  elephant.  It  makes  me  ashamed. 
It  shows  that  they  are  brighter  than  I 
am,  and  are  therefore  my  superiors.  It 
annoys  me,  for  I  want  to  bo  the  prin- 


Eve's  Diary  21 

cipal  Experiment  myself — and  I  intend 
to  be,  too. 

I  have  learned  a  number  of  things, 
and  am  educated,  now,  but  I  wasn't  at 
first.  I  was  ignorant  at  first.  At  first 
it  used  to  vex  me  because,  with  all  my 
watching,  I  was  never  smart  enough  to 
be  around  when  the  water  was  running 
up-hill ;  but  now  I  do  not  mind  it.  I  have 
experimented  and  experimented  until 
now  I  know  it  never  does  run  up-hill, 
except  in  the  dark.  I  know  it  does  in  the 
dark,  because  the  pool  never  goes  dry; 
which  it  would,  of  course,  if  the  water 
didn't  come  back  in  the  night.  It  is  best 
to  prove  things  by  actual  experiment; 
then  you  know;  whereas  if  you  depend 
on  guessing  and  supposing  and  conjectur 
ing,  you  will  never  get  educated. 

Some  things  you  can't  find  out;  but 
you  will  never  know  you  can't  by  guess 
ing  and  supposing:  no,  you  have  to  be 
patient  and  go  on  experimenting  until 
you  find  out  that  you  can't  find  out. 
And  it  is  delightful  to  have  it  that  way, 
it  makes  the  world  so  interesting.  If 
there  wasn't  anything  to  find  out,  it  would 
bo  dull.  Even  trying  to  find  out  and  not 
finding  out  is  just  as  interesting  as  try 
ing  to  find  out  and  finding  out,  and  I 
don't  know  but  more  so.  The  secret  of 


22  Harper's  Novelettes 

the  water  -was  a  treasure  until  I  got  it; 
then  the  excitement  all  went  away,  and 
I  recognized  a  sense  of  loss. 

By  experiment  I  know  that  wood  swims, 
and  dry  leaves,  and  feathers,  and  plenty 
of  other  things;  therefore  by  all  that 
cumulative  evidence  you  know  that  a  rock 
will  swim;  but  you  have  to  put  up  with 
simply  knowing  it,  for  there  isn't  any 
way  to  prove  it — up  to  now.  But  I  shall 
find  a  way — then  that  excitement  will  go. 
Such  things  make  me  sad;  because  by 
and  by  when  I  have  found  out  everything 
there  won't  be  any  more  excitements,  and 
I  do  love  excitements  so !  The  other  night 
I  couldn't  sleep  for  thinking  about  it. 

At  first  I  couldn't  make  out  what  I 
was  made  for,  but  now  I  think  it  was  to 
search  out  the  secrets  of  this  wonderful 
world  and  be  happy  and  thank  the  Giver 
of  it  all  for  devising  it.  I  think  there 
are  many  things  to  learn  yet — I  hope  so; 
and  by  economizing  and  not  hurrying 
too  fast  I  think  they  will  last  weeks  and 
weeks.  I  hope  so.  When  you  cast  up 
a  feather  it  sails  away  on  the  air  and 
goes  out  of  sight;  then  you  throw  up  a 
clod  and  it  doesn't.  It  comes  down,  every 
time.  I  have  tried  it  and  tried  it,  and 
it  is  always  so.  I  wonder  why  it  is? 
Of  course  it  doesn't  come  down,  but  why 


Eve's  Diary  23 

ghould  It  seem  to?  I  suppose  it  is  an 
optical  illusion.  I  mean,  one  of  them 
is.  I  don't  know  which  one.  It  may 
be  the  feather,  it  may  be  the  clod;  I 
can't  prove  which  it  is,  I  can  only  dem 
onstrate  that  one  or  the  other  is  a  fake, 
and  let  a  person  take  his  choice. 

By  watching,  I  know  that  the  stars 
are  not  going  to  last.  I  have  seen  some 
of  the  best  ones  melt  and  run  down  the 
sky.  Since  one  can  melt,  they  can  all 
melt;  since  they  can  all  melt,  they  can 
all  melt  the  same  night.  That  sorrow 
will  come — I  know  it.  I  mean  to  sit  up 
every  night  and  look  at  them  as  long  as 
I  can  keep  awake;  and  I  will  impress 
those  sparkling  fields  on  my  memory,  so 
that  by  and  by  when  they  are  taken  away 
I  can  by  my  fancy  restore  those  lovely 
myriads  to  the  black  sky  and  make  them 
sparkle  again,  and  double  them  by  the 
blur  of  my  tears. 

AFTER   THE   FALL 

When  I  look  back,  the  Garden  is  a 
dream  to  me.  It  was  beautiful,  surpass 
ingly  beautiful,  enchantingly  beautiful; 
and  now  it  is  lost,  and  I  shall  not  see 
it  any  more. 

The  Garden  is  lost,  but  I  have  found 
him,  and  am  content.  He  loves  me  as 


24  Harper's  Novelettes 

well  as  he  can;  I  love  him  with  all  the 
strength  of  my  passionate  nature,  and 
this,  I  think,  is  proper  to  my  youth  and 
sex.  If  I  ask  myself  why  I  love  him, 
I  find  I  do  not  know,  and  do  not  really 
much  care  to  know;  so  I  suppose  that 
this  kind  of  love  is  not  a  product  of 
reasoning  and  statistics,  like  one's  love 
for  other  reptiles  and  animals.  I  think 
that  this  must  be  so.  I  love  certain  birds 
because  of  their  song;  but  I  do  not  love 
Adam  on  account  of  his  singing — no,  it 
is  not  that;  the  more  he  sings  the  more 
I  do  not  get  reconciled  to  it.  Yet  I  ask 
him  to  sing,  because  I  wish  to  learn  to 
like  everything  he  is  interested  in.  I 
am  sure  I  can  learn,  because  at  first  I 
could  not  stand  it,  but  now  I  can.  It 
sours  the  milk,  but  it  doesn't  matter;  I 
can  get  used  to  that  kind  of  milk. 

It  is  not  on  account  of  his  brightness 
that  I  love  him — no,  it  is  not  that.  He 
is  not  to  blame  for  his  brightness,  such 
as  it  is,  for  he  did  not  make  it  himself; 
he  is  as  God  made  him,  and  that  is  suf 
ficient.  There  was  a  wise  purpose  in  it, 
that  I  know.  In  time  it  will  develop, 
though  I  think  it  will  not  be  sudden; 
and  besides,  there  is  no  hurry;  he  is  well 
enough  just  as  he  is. 

It  is  not  on  account  of  his  gracious 


Eve's  Diary  25 

and  considerate  ways  and  his  delicacy 
that  I  love  him.  No,  he  has  lacks  in  these 
regards,  but  he  is  well  enough  just  so, 
and  is  improving. 

It  is  not  on  account  of  his  industry 
that  I  love  him — no,  it  is  not  that.  I 
think  he  has  it  in  him,  and  I  do  not  know 
why  he  conceals  it  from  me.  It  is  my 
only  pain.  Otherwise  he  is  frank  and 
open  with  me,  now.  I  am  sure  he  keeps 
nothing  from  me  but  this.  It  grieves  me 
that  he  should  have  a  secret  from  me, 
and  sometimes  it  spoils  my  sleep,  think 
ing  of  it,  but  I  will  put  it  out  of  my 
mind ;  it  shall  not  trouble  my  happiness, 
which  is  otherwise  full  to  overflowing. 

It  is  not  on  account  of  his  education 
that  I  love  him — no,  it  is  not  that.  He 
is  self-educated,  and  does  really  know  a 
multitude  of  things,  but  they  are  not  so. 

It  is  not  on  account  of  his  chivalry  that 
I  love  him — no,  it  is  not  that.  He  told 
on  me,  but  I  do  not  blame  him;  it  is  a 
peculiarity  of  sex,  I  think,  and  he  did 
not  make  his  sex.  Of  course  I  would 
not  have  told  on  him,  I  would  have 
perished  first;  but  that  is  a  peculiarity 
of  sex,  too,  and  I  do  not  take  credit  for  it, 
for  I  did  not  make  my  sex. 

Then  why  is  it  that  Llove  him  ?  Mere 
ly  because  he  is  masculine,  I  think. 


26  Harper's  Novelettes 

At  bottom  he  is  pood,  and  I  love  him 
for  that,  hut  I  could  love  him  without  it. 
If  he  should  heat  me  and  abuse  me,  I 
should  go  on  loving  him.  I  know  it.  It 
is  a  matter  of  sex,  I  think. 

He  is  strong  and  handsome,  and  I  love 
him  for  that,  and  I  admire  him  and  am 
proud  of  him,  but  I  could  love  him  with 
out  those  qualities.  If  he  were  plain, 
I  should  love  him;  if  he  were  a  wreck, 
I  should  love  him;  and  I  would  work  for 
him,  and  slave  over  him,  and  pray  for  him, 
and  watch  by  his  bedside  until  I  died. 

Yes,  I  think  I  love  him  merely  because 
he  is  mine,  and  is  masculine.  There  is 
no  other  reason,  I  suppose.  And  so  I 
think  it  is  as  I  first  said:  that  this  kind 
of  love  is  not  a  product  of  reasonings  and 
statistics.  It  just  comes — none  knows 
whence — and  cannot  explain  itself.  And 
doesn't  need  to. 

It  is  what  I  think.  But  I  am  only 
a  girl,  and  the  first  that  has  examined 
this  matter,  and  it  may  turn  out  that 
in  my  ignorance  and  inexperience  I  have 
not  got  it  right. 

FORTY   YEARS   LATER 

It  is  my  prayer,  it  is  my  longing,  that 
we  may  pass  from  this  life  together — 
a  longing  which  shall  never  perish  from 


Eve's  Diary  27 

the  earth,  but  shall  have  place  in  the 
heart  of  every  wife  that  loves,  until  the 
end  of  time;  and  it  shall  be  called  by 
my  name. 

But  if  one  of  us  must  go  first,  it  is 
my  prayer  that  it  shall  be  I;  for  he  is 
strong,  I  am  weak,  I  am  not  so  neces 
sary  to  him  as  he  is  to  me — life  without 
him  would  not  be  life;  how  could  I 
endure  it?  This  prayer  is  also  im 
mortal,  and  will  not  cease  from  being 
offered  up  while  my  race  continues.  I 
am  the  first  wife;  and  in  the  last  wife 
I  shall  be  repeated. 

AT   EVE'S  GRAVE 

ADAM:  Wheresoever  she  was,  there 
was  Eden. 

3 


Covered  Embers 

BY  ELIZABETH   STUABT  PIIELPS 

WHEN  the  stenographer  knocked 
at  the  door,  John  Herrick  laid 
down  his  brief  impatiently. 

"I  believe  I  told  you  not  to  disturb 
me,"  he  remarked.  His  manner  had  the 
courteous  formality  with  which  he  was  in 
the  habit  of  addressing  this  young  person. 

Her  brows  wrinkled.  She  had  the 
haughty  pompadour  roll,  the  coquettish 
puff  of  white  tulle  at  the  back  of  her 
neck,  and  the  severe  black  silk  cuffs 
characteristic  of  her  class. 

"  T  have  done  nothing  but  see  people 
all  the  morning.  I  reminded  you  that 
I  would  see  no  one  else  until  I  finished 
this.  It  is  important.  You  will  say  that 
I  am  very  much  engaged." 

"  But,  you  see,"  suggested  the  girl,  shut 
ting  the  door  behind  her,  "  this  is  a  new 
one,  from  up-country,  I  guess, — I  should 
say  as  much  as  thirty  miles  out;  perhaps 
forty.  He's  got  to  get  the  train.  His 


Covered  Embers  29 

business  is  very  important, — but  they  all 
say  that"  admitted  the  experienced  office- 
girl.  "He  says  he's  got  to  get  the  one- 
o'clock  train  back  to  China." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  replied  the  lawyer, 
"  if  he  comes  as  far  as  that — I'd  better 
see  him." 

The  circumstance  that  John  Herrick 
was  a  gentleman  indescribably  affected 
the  new  client,  who  had  entered  the  room 
noisily;  he  brought  the  aggressive  scowl 
of  a  man  whose  acquaintance  with  the 
bar  had  been  limited  to  the  shysters  he 
had  met  and  the  newspaper  reports  that 
he  had  read. 

"I  came,"  began  the  man,  with  the 
tactlessness  of  a  country  mechanic,  "  be 
cause  you  was  recommended.  That's  the 
only  reason." 

"Ah!"  replied  Herrick,  with  a  charming 
smile ;  "  to  whom  do  I  owe  this  pleasure  ?" 

"To  last  Sunday's  Planet,  sir.  You 
won  that  case.  Me  and  my  wife  have 
been  reading  it  up.  My  name  is  Dins- 
more — of  Dinsmore  and  Peeler." 

The  visitor,  who  had  begun  to  speak 
in  an  oratorical  key,  as  if  he  were  ad 
dressing  a  prayer-meeting,  now  dropped 
from  the  combative  to  the  conversational, 
and  took  the  chair  which  the  lawyer  had 
suavely  indicated. 


30  Harper's  Novelettes 

Herrick  sat  watching  him  with  a  clear 
scrutiny,  shrewd  but  straightforward. 
Dinsmore  was  a  big,  beetling  man;  his 
thick  hair  and  his  jungle  of  a  beard  gave 
one  the  impression  that  he  was  top- 
heavy.  His  eyes  were  black,  and  of  a 
smouldering  sort;  on  the  surface  they 
were  cool,  or  even  cold,  and  his  manner 
was  arbitrary. 

Herrick    thought:    "Born    tyrant, 
pity  his  wife."     But  he  said:  "I  am  at 
your  service.     What  can  I  do  for  you, 
Mr.  Dinsmore?" 

"Well,  you  see,"  blurted  Dinsmore, 
"me  and  my  wife  can't  get  on.  We 
want  a  divorce." 

The  lawyer's  expression  changed  in 
definably.  Indifference  and  politeness 
strengthened  into  gravity  and  attention. 
For  this  class  of  cases  he  cherished  a 
distaste  out  of  proportion  to  his  success 
in  the  recent  instance  which  had  at 
tracted  comment  in  the  press  and  added 
to  his  already  brilliant  reputation.  In 
fact,  he  had  only  touched  that  out  of 
chivalry;  the  woman  was  wronged,  and 
she  was  dying. 

"Ah?"  He  leaned  back  in  his  chair, 
with  the  motion  of  a  man  who  has  made 
up  his  mind  not  to  neglect  the  client. 
"  That's  a  pity." 


Covered  Embers  31 

Dinsmore's  jaw  fell  a  little,  and  he  sat 
staring  foolishly.  This  was  not  what  he 
expected  from  an  attorney  who  was 
about  to  take  his  money  for  the  disrup 
tion  of  a  home. 

Embarrassed  by  he  knew  not  what,  and 
resentful  he  knew  not  why,  he  hurriedly 
began  to  talk  as  if  he  had  been  cross- 
examined;  in  point  of  fact,  the  lawyer 
had  not  yet  put  a  question. 

"I  am  Robert  Dinsmore,  of  the  firm 
of  Dinsmore  and  Peeler.  There  ain't  any 
Peeler — he  died  of  a  shakin'  palsy,  but  we 
go  by  the  name  the  neighbors  are  used  to. 
We're  in  paint  and  wall-paper.  My  ad 
dress  is  Southeast  Street,  China.  My 
wife's  name  is  Anna — christened  Diana 
to  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church.  I'm 
a  Baptist  myself.  We  don't  agree  in 
religion  more'n  we  do  in  anything.  We 
ain't  happy  together.  We  can't  get  on. 
We  want  to  be  divorced." 

"Why?" 

"  What  business  is  it  of  yourn  ?"  shot 
back  the  client. 

"  I  can  give  you  the  address  of  some 
other  attorney,"  suggested  Herrick,  smi 
ling.  "  There  are  many.  You  can  take 
your  choice." 

"By  gum!"  exploded  the  mechanic, 
"  I  chose  you,  sir." 


32  Harper's  Novelettes 

"  Very  well,  sir.  Then  you  will  an 
swer  my  questions,  and  do  it  like  a 
gentleman." 

"I  ask  your  pardon,"  slowly  said  the 
client,  after  some  difficult  thought.  "  Go 
on.  I  ain't  used  to  this  sorter  thing — 
nor  I  ain't  as  used  to  gentlemen  as  you 
be,  Mr.  Herrick.  Go  ahead." 

"  Now  we're  friends,"  observed  Her 
rick,  in  his  winning  way.  "  And  we  can 
get  together.  Foes  can't,  you  know. 
And  counsellor  and  client  must  work 
together,  as  much  as — well,  in  another 
sense,  like  man  and  wife.  Litigation, 
like  marriage,  demands  harmony — while 
creating  discord,"  he  appended,  under 
breath. 

"  That's  just  it,"  urged  Dinsmore. 
"  There  ain't  any  in  our  house.  It's  one 
eternal  and  infernal  bob-whizzle." 

"  What  is — excuse  me ;  the  word  is  un 
familiar — what  is  your  definition  of  a 
bob-whizzle?" 

"  Why,  it's  a— it's  a  bob-whizzlc ,"  an 
swered  Dinsmore,  dogmatically.  "  If 
you'd  ever  been  bob-whizzled,  you'd  know 
without  aslcin  what  bob-whizzlin'  means." 

"  Possibly,"  returned  the  lawyer,  wheel 
ing  in  his  chair  and  looking  out  of  the 
window  at  the  opposite  building;  its  dead 
stone-wall  constituted  at  once  his  fore- 


Covered  Embers  33 

ground  and  perspective.  "  But  if  you  will 
have  patience  with  my  ignorance — sup 
pose  you  particularize.  Precisely  what 
do  you  understand  by  the  striking  phrase 
that  you  use?  Is  it  anything — that  is 
to  say— 

"  What!"  cried  the  house-painter. 

"Is  there  anything  in  this  case  such 
as  your  present  manner  forbids  me  to 
define  too  particularly?" 

"  What  do  you  take  us  for  ?"  gasped 
the  client,  starting  from  his  chair.  "  Why, 
we're  respectable  folks !" 

"  I  understand  perfectly ;  of  course. 
In  other  words,  you  are  not  unfaithful 
to  Mrs.  Dinsmore?" 

"Me  unfaithful  to — my  wife?  Good 
Lord,  sir!  Why,  I  never  thought  of  such 
a  thing!" 

"  You  will  excuse  me — we  lawyers  have 
to  be  blunt,  you  know;  that  is  our  busi 
ness.  There  is,  then,  no  other  question 
of  equal  or  greater  delicacy  involved?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  you're  drivin'  at," 
said  Dinsmore,  with  ominous  precision. 

"  I  mean  to  say  that,  as  a  husband,  you 
have  no  moral  grounds  of  complaint  ?" 

"  If  you  mean  to  insinerrate  that  my 
wife — Diana  Dinsmore — my  wife,  sir,  is 
capable  of  ...  of  anything  .  .  .  like 
that  ...  If  you  wasn't  so  much  smaller'n 


34  Harper's  Novelettes 

me,  I'd  knock  you  off  a  fifty-foot  ladder 
and  not  pick  up  the  pieces." 

"  Come,  Mr.  Dinsmore,"  replied  the 
lawyer,  good  -  naturedly,  "  be  a  reason 
able  man.  We  agreed  to  be  friends." 

"  I  didn't  agree  to  set  here  and  have 
my  wife  insulted,"  cried  Dinsmore,  in  a 
high  key. 

"  You  don't  suppose  it's  any  easier  for 
a  lawyer  to  put  such  questions  than  it  is 
for  a  client  to  answer  them — do  you?" 
asked  the  attorney,  with  a  self-possession 
which  now  began  to  act  upon  the  client's 
nerves,  like  slow  massage,  set  deep,  and 
working  to  the  surface.  "  Sit  down  and 
tell  me  all  about  it.  Why  do  you  want 
a  divorce?  Don't  drink,  do  you?" 

"  I'm  a  member  of  the  First  Baptist 
Church  of  China,"  answered  the  me 
chanic,  simply. 

"  The  lady's  habits  are  good,  of  course  ? 
I  was  sure  of  it." 

"  We  ain't  a  dissipated  family,"  replied 
the  client,  in  a  weakened  voice. 

The  lawyer  went  firmly  on.  "  What  is 
the  ground  of  complaint?  Desertion? 
Won't  she  live  with  you?  Have  you  ever 
stayed  three  years  away  from  her?" 

"  I  hain't  been  three  days  away  from 
her — for  thretty  years,"  answered  Dins- 
more,  dully. 


Covered  Embers  35 

His  face  had  now  begun  to  assume  a 
vacant  look;  his  fingers  jerked  at  his 
beard,  and  then  skulked  after  his  hat. 
Herrick  noticed  the  stains  under  the 
man's  nails,  where  vermilion  and  ochre 
had  refused  to  yield  to  turpentine  baths. 
It  occurred  to  the  lawyer  that  he  was 
dealing  with  a  simple-hearted,  good  fel 
low,  and  that  his  professional  aim  had 
overshot. 

"  I  ain't  an  edoocated  man,"  said  the 
house-painter,  not  without  dignity.  "  We 
can't  all  be,  I  suppose.  But  I've  got  some 
sense  left  in  my  skull — if  I  did  come  to 
this  here  office.  And  I  say,  sir,  I'd 
rather  be  a  house  and  sign  painter — walls 
papered  in  the  latest  styles  at  short  no 
tice — an'  live  in  Southeast  Street,  China, 
— and  make  an  unfortnit  marriage  with 
a  good  woman, — than  mix  up  with  sin 
an'  uncleanness  the  way  you  do.  She 
wanted  a  city  lawyer,"  added  the  client, 
plaintively;  "she  said  they  knew  so 
much.  I  guess  she's  about  right  there — 
if  you're  a  specimen.  I'd  rather  dry  out 
in  China — like  old  putty — than  have 
your  learnin'  at  the  expense  of  studyin* 
out  the  wickedness  of  this  tarnation 
town — or  livin'  in  it,  either." 

"And  so  would  I,"  answered  the  law 
yer,  unexpectedly.  "  You  have  altogether 


36  Harper's  Novelettes 

the  advantage  of  us.  It  is  that  which 
makes  me  sorry  to  see  you  throw  it  away. 
.  .  .  What  did  you  say  was  the  reason 
you  wanted  a  divorce?" 

"  Eternal  bob-whizzlin',"  urged  Dins- 
more,  relapsing  into  his  earlier  tone. 
"  She  gets  mad.  She  says  things  she 
hadn't  orter.  .  .  .  When  she  does,  I 
don't  lilce  my  wife.  She  don't  like  me, 
neither.  She  says  I  order  her  round." 

"  Do  you  ?" 

"  I  dare  say.  She  deserves  it.  Be 
sides,  she's  a  woman.  It's  natur'  to  order 
a  woman  round." 

"  Well  ?"  asked  the  lawyer.    "  Go  on." 

"  That's  about  all,"  replied  the  client. 

"Nothing  else?  Consider  carefully. 
Are  you  telling  me  the  whole  story? 
How  about  cruelty?  Any  blows?  Did 
you  ever  use  her  roughly  ?" 

"  I  may  not  be  a  gentleman/'  said  the 
mechanic  through  his  teeth,  "but  I  am 
a  man.  Once  I  yanked  her  apron-string, 
and  mebbe  there  was  once  I  sorter  pushed 
her  into  the  wagon  of  a  Sunday  when  she 
was  all-fired  late, — and  another  time  I 
knocked  a  coffee-cup  outen  her  hand. 
There  warn't  never  anything  worse." 

"Did  she  ever  offer  any  personal  vio 
lence  to  you?"  pursued  the  lawyer;  his 
mustache  twitched. 


Covered  Embers  37 

"Do  I  look  like  it?"  demanded  the 
client,  fiercely;  he  held  out  his  huge 
clenched  fists. 

"  You  never  were  five  years  in  prison, 
I  am  sure?"  inquired  Herrick,  with  his 
perfect  manner. 

"  Good  Lord !"  cried  the  client,  sop 
ping  his  forehead  with  his  handker 
chief.  "  Any  more  questions  where  that 
come  from?" 

"  Then,"  returned  Herrick,  quietly,  "  I 
do  not  see  that  you  can  obtain  a  divorce 
— in  this  State.  If  you  will  allow  me 
to  say  so,  I  think  it  is  fortunate  that  you 
cannot.  In  fact,  I  advise  you  strongly 
against  such  a  step.  I  am  sure  you 
would  both  regret  it.  I  should  rather 
not  further  your  making  such  a  mistake 
— even  if  the  statutes  permitted." 

"But  I  thought  that  was  the  way  you 
fellars  made  your  money!"  cried  the 
client.  He  sat  with  his  mouth  open, 
staring. 

"  There  is  one  thing,"  observed  the  at 
torney,  in  a  low  voice,  "better  than  the 
pursuit  of  money,  or  the  habit  of  having 
one's  own  way — those  I  take  to  be  the 
two  great  errors  of  life  in  our  day, — and 
that  is  a  human  home.  It  is  the  best 
thing  there  is  in  the  world.  If  I  were 
you,  I  should  save  yours — somehow." 


38  Harper's  Novelettes 

"  But  we've  goiter  have  that  divorce," 
insisted  Dinsmore,  obstinately.  "  She 
says  wo  have." 

"Very  well,"  replied  ITerrick,  taking 
up  his  brief.  "Bring  her  here  Friday 
morning  at  half  past  ten.  I  will  see 
what  can  be  done." 

It  was  early  May,  and  the  evening  was 
chilly  with  a  formless  blur,  neither  fog 
nor  rain.  Dinsraore  shivered  as  he  walk 
ed  up  the  path  between  the  dahlia  and 
peony  beds  and  pushed  open  his  own 
door.  His  wife  had  not  come  to  meet 
him,  but  she  stood  in  the  entry,  expectant 
ly.  She  was  a  small  woman,  who  had 
once  been  pretty;  she  was  neatly  dressed 
in  black  cashmere,  with  a  fresh,  white 
apron  trimmed  with  edging  that  she  had 
crocheted  on  winter  evenings;  she  wore 
a  modern  stock  of  lace  and  blue  ribbon 
about  her  still  well-shaped  throat.  Her 
hair,  now  rather  gray,  had  been  of  the 
reddish  variety;  she  looked  like  a  wom 
an  with  a  warm  heart  and  a  red- 
haired  temper. 

"Lost  your  train,  didn't  you?"  she  be 
gan,  nervously.  "  I've  been  watchin'  all 
afternoon.  Supper's  hot  and  ready." 

"  I'm  beat  out,"  said  Dinsmore,  hand 
ing  her  his  hat.  She  took  it  with  the 


Covered  Embers  39 

readiness  of  a  wife  who  has  always  wait 
ed  on  her  husband,  and  hung  it  up  for 
him.  As  she  did  this,  she  avoided  his 
eyes,  for  she  felt  that  these  evaded  her. 
Dinsmore  put  his  lips  together  in  the 
obstinate  way  that  she  was  used  to;  he 
did  not — she  perceived  that  he  did  not 
mean  to — speak. 

"  Well?"  she  asked,  timidly.  The  habit 
of  being  afraid  of  him  was  old  and  fixed; 
the  prospect  of  freedom  from  it  did  not 
seem  to  help  her  any,  yet. 

"  He  says  we  can't  do  it,"  said  Dins- 
more,  stolidly.  "  There  ain't  any  law." 

"There's  gotter  be  a  law!"  cried  the 
red-haired  wife,  "  I've  been  miser'ble 
long's  I  can  stand  it." 

"  Guess  I'm  even  with  ye  on  that  score, 
Anna."  The  painter  laughed  unpleasant 
ly.  "You  got  no  call  to  plume  your 
self  that  I  know  of — beginnin'  to  bob- 
whizzle  already." 

"We  got  no  call  to  set  out  to  quarrel 
that  I  know  of,  either,"  returned  the 
wife,  in  a  gentler  tone.  "  It  always  dis 
agrees  with  you  to  get  riled  before  eatin'. 

"I  could  eat  a  pint  o'  white  lead," 
admitted  the  man,  with  a  mollified  air. 
"Besides,  he  says  he'll  think  it  over. 
He  says  for  you  to  come  there  along  o' 
me  on  Friday,  and  he'll  see." 


40  Harper's  Novelettes 

"My  spring  sack  won't  be  done  till 
Saturday,"  urged  the  woman.  "But 
mebbe  Mary  Lizzie  can  be  drove  on  it  a 
little.  Here — I'll  bring  your  other  coat. 
You  go  lie  down  on  the  lounge  till  I  get 
supper  on.  I  don'  know  when  I've  seen 
you  so  beat." 

"That's  a  fact,"  said  Dinsmore,  plain 
tively;  he  yielded  to  feminine  sympathy 
as  he  had  always  done, — as  if  it  were  a 
man's  right,  rather  than  a  woman's  gift. 

"  There's  shortcake,"  said  Mrs.  Dins- 
more,  cheerfully.  "I  got  the  first 
strawberries  Dickson  had  for  you.  They 
ain't  half  so  sour  as  you'd  expect, — and 
I  whipped  the  cream." 

Dinsmore  as  he  ate  his  supper  seemed 
to  smooth  in  soul  and  body;  one  could 
see  the  outlines  of  his  cheek  round  off 
and  his  smouldering  eye  cool.  When  ho 
spoke,  it  was  in  a  comfortable  tone. 

"  There  ain't  a  woman  in  China  can 
beat  you  on  strawberry  shortcake,  Anna, 
if  I  say  it  as  shouldn't." 

His  wife  blushed  with  pleasure. 

"It's  your  mother's  receipt,"  she  ob 
served,  with  a  tact  worthy  of  a  happier 
marriage.  Dinsmore  cordially  passed  his 
plate  for  a  second  piece. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  abruptly,  "we 
ain't  wicked  enough,  neither  of  us." 


Covered  Embers  41 

Mrs.  Dinsmore  lifted  the  pained  and 
puzzled  expression  of  a  woman  who,  how 
ever  unfortunate  her  matrimonial  expe 
rience,  has  never  disputed  the  inferiority 
of  her  own  to  her  husband's  intellect.  It 
occurred  to  her  that  Kobert  had  begun 
to  discourse  (he  was  naturally  a  little 
oratorical)  upon  some  abstruse  subject, 
like  politics  or  savings-banks, — one  upon 
which  she  could  not  be  expected  to  follow 
him;  she  was  quite  in  the  dark  as  to  his 
drift,  until  he  offered  a  magnanimous 
elucidation  in  these  words: 

"  There  ain't  no  law  for  decent  folks. 
If  we  wanter  divorce,  we've  gotter  do 
some  mean  thing  to  'arn  it.  Mebbe  if  I 
take  to  drink — we  might  stand  a  chance. 
If  you'd  ruther,  I  can  knock  you  down— 
I  don't  favor  that  way  myself.  If  you'll 
jam  me  over  the  head  with  the  family 
Bible,  it  might  do;  it's  good  V  heavy. 
There  ain't  no  other  way  I  can  see,  on- 
less  I  steal  something  and  get  sent  to 
prison  for  five  years.  We  ain't  neither 
of  us  loonies,  and  I've  been  so  near 
sighted  I  hain't  deserted  you.  I  can,  if 
we're  put  to  it.  'Tain't  too  late.  But  it 
takes  quite  a  while — three  years.  If  you 
was  to  elope  with  a  fellar,  that  would 
help  us  out.  Can  you  think  of  anybody 
you'd  fancy?" 


42  Harper's  Novelettes 

As  Dinsmore  uttered  this  long  and  in 
scrutable  discourse,  his  wife  had  grown 
pale,  and  paler;  her  plump  elbows  shook. 

"  He's  wanderin',"  she  thought.  "  He's 
taken  a  spell,  and  it's  gone  to  his  head." 

"  Let  me  get  you  a  dose  of  your  spring 
tonic,  Robert,"  she  purred,  soothing  him. 
"  An'  then  I'll  fix  you  up  a  nice  hot  foot 
bath  'n'  mustard,  and  send  for  the  doctor. 
You  must  have  taken  cold,  or  maybe 
you7re  a  mite  bilious.  There,  Rob,  there! 
You  come  along  o'  me,  and  I'll  take  care 
of  you." 

It  was  so  long  since  she  had  called 
him  Rob  that  the  word  arrested  Dins- 
more's  attention  and  quenched  the  retort 
burning  upon  his  tongue.  He  looked  at 
his  wife  steadily  and  with  a  certain  in 
terest,  as  if  in  a  new  subject,  or  a  new 
phase  of  an  old  one. 

"  You  don't  understand,  Anna.  You're 
a  woman,  and  I  hadn't  orter  expected  it. 
I  ain't  out  o'  my  head ;  I've  only  been  to 
the  city.  This  ain't  loonacy.  It's  law. 
I  ain'ter  goin'ter  take  no  spring  ton 
ic,"  he  added,  pugnaciously.  "  Nor  I 
ain'ter  goin'ter  go  to  bed.  I'm  goin'ter 
light  the  settin'-room  fire  and  set  by  it. 
I'm  cold.  It's  so  cold  I  guess  I'll  keep 
it  agoin'  till  mornin'.  Burnin',  did  you 
say?  Good  and  ready?  Well!  That's 


Covered  Embers  43 

nice,  Anna.  You'd  better  go  to  bed. 
I'll  set  a  while  alone.  You've  given  me 
a  fust -rate  supper,  and  I'm  much 
obleeged  to  you,  Anna.  But  there's  times 
a  man  has  to  be  alone — and  this  is  one 
of  them  times.  .  .  .  We  may  as  well  get 
used  to  it.  We've  gotter  set  alone  a 
good  deal,  I  s'pose." 

The  wife  shrivelled  away  into  herself 
at  once,  and  assented  obediently.  With 
out  further  words  the  two  parted  for  the 
night.  She  washed  the  dishes  and  went 
slowly  up-stairs  to  her  own  room,  which 
her  husband  had  not  entered  for  longer 
than  either  of  them  cared  to  recall. 

Robert  Dinsmore  sat  by  the  hearth 
and  fed  the  fire  gloomily.  His  thoughts 
flickered  as  the  blaze  did,  under  the  big 
birch  logs,  which  he  crossed  and  recrossed, 
and  built  up  and  built  again;  but  his 
feeling  went  steadily  to  ashes  as  the  fire 
went.  He  perceived  that  two  respectable 
people  who  had  married  ought  to  be  able 
to  live  together  in  comfort  and  in  what 
is  called  peace.  But  he  felt  that  in  his 
own  case  something  fundamental  to  this 
mysterious  achievement  was  lacking;  he 
supposed  it  was  what  is  known  as  love, 
but  he  was  not  quite  sure.  That  it  was 
something  which  had  been,  and  was  not, 
was  plain;  beyond,  he  got  into  fog.  He 


44  Harper's  Novelettes 

shook  his  head  as  he  crouched  over  the 
fading  fire.  His  wife  never  saw  the  look 
that  settled  over  his  large,  unfinished 
face.  He  sat  brooding  till  midnight,  as 
an  unhappy  man  will,  bitter  and  sep 
arate.  Then  he  covered  the  fire  carefully 
with  its  own  ashes,  hot  and  cold.  "It's 
a  tarnation  late  spring,"  he  said.  "  I 
guess  I'll  keep  it  up  overnight." 

The  stenographer's  brows  wrinkled  per 
plexedly  when  she  admitted  the  unworld 
ly  couple.  A  composite  feeling  of  dis 
dain  and  respect  struggled  for  expression 
in  the  face  of  this  sophisticated  young 
woman  as  Mrs.  Dinsmore,  in  her  new 
spring  sack  (visibly  unappreciated  by  the 
office-girl,  though  conceded  to  be  the  ban 
ner  of  fashion  in  China),  was  introduced 
into  the  inner  office.  A  peremptory  wave 
of  the  girl's  hand  relegated  the  husband 
to  a  seat  in  the  waiting-room  without. 

"  That  young  lady  with  the  tulle 
rosette  behind  told  me  to  come  in  here," 
began  Mrs.  Dinsmore,  with  her  company 
manner.  "  She  said  you  wanted  to  see 
me  alone.  My  husband  is  right  out  there 
in  call,"  she  added,  with  a  sudden  sense 
of  propriety.  She  could  not  remember 
when  she  had  been  shut  up  in  a  room 
with  a  strange  man.  Indeed,  she  had 


Covered  Embers  45 

never  met  a  man  like  this  one.  His 
delicate  courtesy,  his  high-bred  features, 
his  chivalrous  smile,  first  bewildered  and 
then  charmed  her.  When  he  said,  "  I 
thought,  Mrs.  Dinsmore,  we  had  better 
talk  matters  over  together,"  she  could 
have  told  him  everything  she  had  ever 
thought  or  felt. 

The  instinct  for  the  confessional  which 
is  so  strong  in  every  woman  is  not  pro 
vided  for  by  the  polity  of  the  Methodist 
Episcopal  Church,  and  Anna  Dinsmore, 
who  was  in  her  own  way  a  reserved  wife, 
had  never  told  her  story  to  her  minister. 
Herrick's  sincerity  and  sympathy,  qual 
ities  necessary  to  a  successful  counsellor, 
and  obvious  in  him,  drew  the  woman  on. 
The  misery  of  years  melted  from  her 
lips.  In  half  an  hour  he  had  a  life's 
history,  and  the  heart  of  a  wretched  wife 
throbbed  in  his  hand. 

His  face  underwent  a  change  as  the 
consultation  progressed;  the  experienced 
lines  about  his  mouth  wavered,  and  his 
melancholy  eyes  dwelt  upon  the  client 
kindly;  once  or  twice  they  grew  moist, 
and  once  his  finger  dashed  to  the  lashes. 

"  And  the  child  ?"  he  asked,  gently.  "  I 
understood  you  to  say  that  there  was 
a  child?" 

"  One,   sir.      We   never   had   but   one. 


46  Harpers  Novelettes 

That  was  a  little  girl, — that  was  Deeny. 
He  named  her  Diana,  after  me.  He 
used  to  call  me  Nan  in  those  days;  he 
don't  now.  But  we  called  her  Deeny. 
She  called  herself  that  before  she  could 
talk.  Deeny  died.  She  was  three  years 
old.  She  was  the  prettiest  little  girl, 
Mr.  Herrick,  you  ever  see.  .  .  .  Her 
father  set  the  world  and  all  by  her.  It's 
fourteen  years  come  Sunday  after  next 
since  Deeny  died." 

Herrick  arose  silently,  opened  the  door, 
and  beckoned  the  husband  in.  The  two 
sat  before  their  lawyer  like  children  be 
fore  a  father,  with  downcast  eyes.  The 
man  was  the  first  to  assert  himself. 

"  Well !"  he  began,  in  a  loud  voice. 
"  I  suppose  she's  been  pitching  into  me  ?" 

"  On  the  contrary,"  replied  the  lawyer, 
sternly,  "your  wife  has  taken  her  full 
share  of  the  blame — more  than  her  share, 
perhaps." 

"I'm  obleeged  to  ye,  Anna,"  observed 
the  husband,  after  some  thought.  "I 
wisht  I'd  done  as  much  by  you.  I'm 
afraid  I  didn't.  I  told  him  you  bob- 
whizzled." 

"Now,  if  you  will  bo  influenced  by 
me,"  began  the  lawyer,  in  his  paternal 
tone;  it  was  that  of  a  man  who  has 
listened  to  the  uneven  tempo  of  so  many 


Covered  Embers  47 

hundred  disordered  human  hearts  that  he 
might  have  been  pardoned  for  slighting 
the  exigency  of  these  plain  people;  in 
stead,  he  made  it  his  own,  as  a  few  men 
might  who  hold  and  honor  the  name  of 
counsellor — "if  you  will  be  guided  by 
me,  you  will  go  home  and  begin  all  over 
again — make  the  best  of  each  other,  and 
of  life,  in  short.  You  have  no  case  at 
all.  You  cannot  obtain  a  divorce  in  this 
State.  If  you  feel  that  you  must  sep 
arate,  you  can  do  that,  of  course.  I  can 
arrange  the  details,  if  you  wish." 

"  That  would  do,"  said  Dinsmore, 
quickly.  "  It's  more  respectable,  and  it 
ain't  so  ondooable  either — is  it?" 

"I  guess  we'd  like  that,"  added  the 
wife,  but  slowly  and  with  averted  eyes. 
Those  of  the  lawyer  saddened  a  little; 
he  had  the  look  of  a  man  who  has  lost 
his  case.  But  he  said : 

"I  have  told  you  what  I  advise.  If 
I  were  in  your  place,  I  should  try  again. 
A  hot  temper  and  an  arbitrary  will  are 
not  a  fatal  combination.  I  assure  you 
that  it's  a  pretty  common  one.  It's 
worth  the  fight  to  get  the  better  of  it, 
— or  so  it  strikes  me." 

"  We've  fit— and  fit,"  replied  the  man. 
"  We're  beat  out." 

"Yes,"  assented  the  woman. 


48  Harper's  Novelettes 

"Very  -well,"  returned  Ilerrick,  curtly. 
"Come  a  week  from  Monday,  and  I'll 
go  over  the  details  with  you.  I  am 
greatly  pressed  for  time  just  now.  Mrs. 
Dinsmore,  if  you  please,  I  will  speak 
with  your  husband  a  moment  alone." 

When  the  two  were  left  together,  the 
counsellor's  manner  abruptly  changed. 
John  Herrick's  face  had  taken  on  a 
certain  transparency,  making  him  look 
fairer  and  finer  than  most  men;  ho 
wheeled  in  his  office  chair  before  he 
began  to  speak.  His  words  were  care 
fully  chosen  and  few  in  number.  These 
were  they: 

"  Dinsmore,  I  want  to  tell  you  about  a 
friend  of  mine — a  man  I  knew  well.  He 
was  not  happy  with  his  wife,  and  they 
parted.  They  had  one  child — it  was  a 
little  girl ;  it  died.  After  that  they  drift 
ed  apart,  the  way  people  do, — and  then 
they  drove  apart.  Matters  got  worse — 
you  know  how  it  is.  They  had  begun  by 
loving  each  other  .  .  .  very  much  .  .  . 
very  truly.  When  they  found  that  they 
were  losing  this  .  .  .  precious  thing — this 
feeling  that  brings  men  and  women  to 
gether — and  leads  them  to  meet  life  pa 
tiently  and  tenderly  for  one  another's 
sake, — they  did  not  try  to  hold  it;  they 
let  it  go,  and  so — I  think  I  told  you, 


Covered  Embers  49 

didn't  I?— they  parted.  She  went— In 
fact,  they  put  the  seas  between  them.  I 
think  the  man  was  the  more  to  blame — 
I  think  we  are  apt  to  be  to  blame.  It 
isn't  a  very  easy  thing  to  be  a  woman, 
Dinsmore.  Let  us  put  ourselves  in  their 
places.  Come!  They  need  to  be  loved 
manfully,  nothing  cowardly  about  it, 
— not  to  whine  over  the  disappoint 
ments  of  marriage.  These  are  altogeth 
er  mutual. 

"A  woman  has  got  to  bo  cherished, 
Dinsmore, — yes,  even  if  she  is  quick 
tempered.  A  man  can  do  that — though 
he  has  outlived  his  honeymoon.  This 
man  that  I  tell  you  of  began  to  think 
so  after  a  while ;  after  he  had  lived  alone 
till  the  ferment  of  things — that  is,  per 
haps  I  do  not  make  it  plain — till  his  first 
irritation  and  soreness  had  healed  and 
calmed.  One  day  he  said  to  himself:  'I 
will  take  the  next  steamer.  I'll  go  to 
her  and  tell  her  how  I  feel.  We  will  try 
again.  We  will  begin  all  over.'  That 
night,  Dinsmore,  that  same  night,  he  had 
a  message  from  her  by  cable.  .  .  .  Do  you 
see?  .  .  .  that  very  evening.  She  said, 
'Come  at  once.'  .  .  .  When  he  got  there, 
she  was  .  .  .  He  was  too  late.  She  was 
dead.  .  .  .  He  never  had  his  chance  to 
try  again. — You  have.  Good-by." 


50  Harper's  Novelettes 

Herrick  wheeled  and  dismissed  the 
client,  who  went  from  the  office  with 
hanging  head  and  walking  on  tiptoe. 

Robert  Dinsmore  was  not  a  quick 
witted  man,  as  we  measure  men  and 
minds,  but  he  had  it  in  him  to  surmise, 
if  he  did  not  perceive,  that  the  counsellor 
had  shared  with  him — a  stranger — the 
sacred  tragedy  of  his  own  history;  and 
that  he  had  done  this  delicate,  self- 
obliterating  thing  not  to  save  a  case,  but 
to  save  a  client's  happiness  and  a  hu 
man  home. 

When  Dinsmore  had  gone,  John  Her 
rick  turned  the  key  in  the  door.  The 
stenographer  knocked  in  vain,  and  whisk 
ed  away,  pouting.  Herrick  did  not  get 
to  work,  but  sat  for  some  time  looking 
at  the  dead  stone-wall,  which  constituted 
his  foreground  and  his  perspective. 

The  late  spring  lagged.  The  peonies 
and  dahlias  in  front  of  Robert  Dins- 
more's  house  held  up  green  finger-tips, 
as  if  they  were  trying  the  weather,  and 
found  it  too  cold  to  venture  into,  so  came 
no  farther.  For  several  evenings  the  fire 
burned  late  on  the  sitting-room  hearth, 
and  the  man  sat  before  it,  silent  and 
apart,  bitter  and  determined.  As  deter 
mined,  but  sadder  and  more  gentle,  the 


Covered  Embers  51 

wife  wept  on  her  pillow,  listening  for 
his  heavy  footfall  turning  to  his  down 
stairs  room.  If  the  night  were  cold,  she 
could  hear  the  scrapings  of  the  shovel 
as  he  covered  the  fire  to  hold  it  over  till 
morning.  Like  many  big  men,  he  had 
small  weaknesses  and  self-indulgences; 
fancied  a  warm  place  to  dress  in  if  it 
were  chilly,  and  crept  there  with  his 
clothes,  half  guiltily,  while  his  wife 
was  building  the  kitchen  fire  and  get 
ting  breakfast. 

The  lawyer  had  allowed  the  couple  ten 
days  before  the  fateful  and  final  inter 
view  which  should  indicate  the  terms  of 
their  separation  and  put  its  details  into 
execution.  If  it  occurred  to  them  to 
wonder  why,  in  reply  to  the  incontro 
vertible  statement  on  Mrs.  Dinsmore's 
part  that  Monday  was  washing-day,  Mr. 
Herrick  had  nevertheless  insisted  on  that 
moist  date,  they  had  not  protested,  and 
obediently  pursued  their  preparations  for 
the  step  which  they  now  curiously  felt 
as  if  they  were  legally  obliged  to  take. 

It  was  to  their  simple  minds  as  if  their 
fate  were  in  the  hands  of  a  sheriff.  In 
a  sense  it  was.  The  dark  sheriff  Disil 
lusion  that  arrests  fugitive  married  love, 
and  does  not  easily  let  go,  had  laid  a 
heavy  grasp  upon  these  two.  Yet  the 


52  Harper's  Novelettes 

mechanic  perplexed  the  lawyer  by  a  cer 
tain  fine  magnanimity  which  would  have 
embellished  the  soul  of  what  we  call 
a  gentleman: 

"Allowance?  All  there  is,  if  you  say 
so.  I  don't  propose  to  cut  Anna  short. 
I'm  in  comfortable  circumstances  and 
have  laid  up  consider'ble.  I  don't  want 
more'n  enough  to  pay  the  laundryman 
and  find  a  little  to  eat  somewheres.  I 
can  sleep  in  the  shop.  She  must  have 
the  house,  it  stands  to  natur'.  No  man 
could  turn  a  woman  outer  doors.  I  want 
to  pervide  handsomely  for  Anna." 

"  Mr.  Dinsmore  is  very  generous  to 
me."  His  wife,  to  her  neighbors  and 
relatives,  said  this  proudly. 

The  domestic  misfortunes  of  the  two 
were  now  the  scandal  of  China,  and  she 
reported  to  her  husband  the  efforts  of 
the  village  to  preserve  the  indivisibility 
of  their  home.  Public  opinion  was 
against  them;  their  course  was  felt  to 
be  a  distinct  reflection  upon  the  charac 
ter  of  the  community  and  the  standing 
of  the  "Baptist  and  Methodist  churches. 

The  unhappy  husband  and  wife  were 
made  to  feel  themselves  the  object  of  a 
general  censure  so  unexpected  and  so 
severe  that  they  combined  instinctively, 
like  the  happiest  of  people,  to  resent  it. 


Covered  Embers  53 

They  grew,  in  fact,  quite  friendly 
over  their  common  misfortune,  and  dis 
cussed  it  daily  between  gusts  of  a  mu 
tual  irritation. 

"  Your  minister  called  here  to-day.  He 
preached  at  me  for  an  hour.  I  told  him 
I  preferred  to  bo  disciplined  by  my 
own  denomination.  He  said  wives  orter 
submit  themselves  to  their  own  Bap 
tist  husbands." 

"  Your  minister  came  to  my  shop  this 
afternoon.  He  pitched  into  me  for  quite 
a  spell.  He  said  husbands  oughter  love 
their  wives,  as  Christ  loved  the  Method 
ist  Church." 

It  would  not  have  been  easy  for  Kob- 
ert  and  Diana  Dinsmore  to  say  when 
they  had  passed  so  much  time  in  each 
other's  society  as  since  they  had  agreed 
to  forswear  it  forever. 

All  this  was  by  day.  With  evening 
their  spirits  fell,  and  they  crept  apart. 
The  wife  cried  a  good  deal;  but  never 
in  his  presence.  She  was  mysteriously 
and  remorselessly  busy — over  what,  he 
could  not  have  told;  she  seemed  to  be 
working  about  the  house  all  day,  giving 
it  the  religious  touch  of  something  more 
sacred  than  spring  cleaning;  washing  his 
bedspreads,  ironing  his  shirts,  doing  up 
curtains  in  his  room,  mending  flannels, 


54  Harper's  Novelettes 

disinterring  camphorated  mummies  of 
summer  clothes — all  his,  all  for  him. 
His  smouldering  eyes  saw  everything,  but 
he  asked  no  questions.  With  the  eager 
ness  of  a  bride,  the  skill  of  a  happy  and 
experienced  housewife,  and  the  sadness 
of  a  widow,  the  woman  worked  on  dog 
gedly.  He  thought  what  a  neat,  sweet 
housekeeper  she  had  always  been — snap 
ping,  sometimes,  when  he  tracked  in 
mud,  but  always  ready  to  mop  it  up 
after  him  with  a  laugh.  He  thought— he 
began  to  think — how  many  comfortable 
hours  he  had  owed  to  her  for  how  many 
years.  He  hated  to  see  her  tiring  herself 
like  this — at  the  last. 

"What  ails  you,  Anna?"  ho  asked, 
sharply. 

"Don't  ye  darst  find  fault  with  me— 
now!"  she  cried,  quavering.  She  took 
up  the  big  stocking  she  was  mending 
and  went  into  another  room.  Dinsmore 
stared  after  her.  His  large  face  wrinkled 
uncomfortably.  She  could  see  him  from 
where  she  sat,  though  she  seemed  not  to. 
She  thought: 

"He  was  a  handsome  fellow — those 
first  years.  Pie's  lost  consider'ble  looks 
the  last  two  weeks.  I  hope  he'll  keep  his 
health,  and  not  get  to  complainin'.  I 
don't  know  who  to  mercy  '11  look  after 


Covered  Embers  55 

him  if  he  should  have  any  of  his  spells. 
His  aunt  Sophia  couldn't  no  more'n 
a  » — she  paused  for  an  adequate  simile 
— "  no  more'n  a  camphorated  wood- 
chuck,"  added  the  New  England  wife. 

The  spring  relented  slowly  and  began 
to  burgeon.  The  dahlias  and  peonies 
thrust  up  their  arms  beside  the  front 
walk.  In  the  bed  under  the  south  win 
dow—that  had  been  the  little  girl's  win 
dow — an  old-fashioned  flower  called  the 
star  -  of  -  Bethlehem  budded  and  blos 
somed;  it  was  a  delicate  flower,  lily- 
shaped,  or  star-shaped,  with  a  gray  shade 
and  a  white  light. 

The  fire  in  the  sitting-room  was  not 
burning  now,  but  Dinsmore  kept  it  care 
fully  laid,  and  sat  by  its  cold  hearth  do 
lorously.  It  had  come  to  be  Saturday 
night — the  last  that  they  were  to  spend 
together.  Dinsmore  had  been  quiet  and 
dull;  but  Anna  worked  all  day.  She  did 
not  stop  sewing  until  nine  o'clock;  then 
she  put  away  her  thimble,  folded  a  big 
pink  and  blue  outing-shirt  neatly,  and 
came  and  sat  down  beside  her  husband. 
The  unlighted  fire  lay  between  them. 

"  I  believe  I've  thought  of  everything," 
she  began,  in  a  tone  as  if  she  had  been 
entertaining  a  caller  with  whom  she  was 


56  Harper's  Novelettes 

on  rather  distant  terms.  "  Your  winter 
ones  are  all  done  up  in  camphor, — sum 
mer  ones  in  the  lowest  drawer  of  your 
bureau.  I  don't  think  you'll  find  a  but 
ton  off  of  anything.  I  hain't  intended 
you  should.  All  yer  stockings  are 
mended  up  'n'  turned  at  the  heel.  Your 
furs  are  in  the  big  chest  in  the  attic, — 
here's  the  key.  I've  had  'em  all  aired  'n' 
sunned  V  brushed,  an'  done  up  in  cam 
phor  'n'  cedar-oil, — I  know  you  hate 
moth-balls.  Don't  you  never  let  any 
body—"  She  broke  off. 

"  The  house  is  clean's  clean  from  top 
to  toe,  Robert.  I've  had  everything  out 
and  everything  in.  It  fairly  smells  of 
soap  'n'  water  'n'  sunshine.  You'll  find 
your  spring  tonic  in  the  medicine  cup 
board.  I  do  hope  you  will — will — you 
will  take  good  care  of  yourself,  an'  not 
get  any  of  your  spells.  I  should  kinder 
hate  to  have  you  get  sick  and  me — 
I  hope  you'll  change  your  feet  when  you 
get  'em  wet,  when  I —  Then,  come  sun 
stroke  weather,  remember  how  I  always 
put  a  wet  sponge  in  the  crown  of  your 
straw  hat,  won't  you  ?  You'll  find  it  over 
the  kitchen  dresser.  I've  baked  a  dozen 
pies — all  sorts.  I'll  roast  a  couple  of 
fowl  and  leave  doughnuts — and  those 
long  cookies  with  holes  in  that  you  like. 


Covered  Embers  $7 

You  can  get  along  for  quite  a  spell,  till 
that  camphorated  wood  —  I  mean  your 
aunt  Sophia  comes.  I  made  up  my  mind 
— after  we  come  from  that  lawyer  o'  Mon 
day  night — to  stop  along  o'  Mary  Lizzie." 

"  What?"  shouted  the  husband. 

The  wife  winced — as  she  had  done,  how 
often ! — at  his  rising  voice.  But  she  an 
swered  steadily :  "  I've  made  up  my  mind. 
I  ain'ter  goin'ter  turn  you  outer  your  own 
home.  I'm  goin'ter  stop  along  of  Mary 
Lizzie.  I  couldn't  seem,  anyways,  to 
turn  you  out,  Robert.  It  don't  seem  fair. 
I  ain'ter  goin'ter  do  it.  I  ain'ter  goin'ter 
stop  here.  I've  fixed  everything  for  you, 
Robert, — pretty  ?s  I  know  how, — and  come 
o'  Monday  I  guess  I  won't  come  back. 
Seems  to  me  it  would  be  easiest,  some 
how.  I —  No,  Robert,  no!  I  ain't  cry- 
in',  nor  I  ain'ter  goin'ter  cry.  You 
lemme  be,  that's  all.  Hain't  you  always 
been  at  me  all  these  years  to  let  you  be, 
to  let  you  have  your  way?  Now,  I'm 
goin'ter  have  mine — for  once.  I've  made 
up  my  mind.  I  know  you've  got  one  of 
your  own,  but  it  ain't  big  enough  to 
change  mine  this  time.  I  ain'ter  goin'ter 
turn  you  out,  and  that  I'm  set  on.  I 
couldn't  stand  it,  Robert, — no  way  in  this 
world, — to  see  you  campin'  in  that  shop. 
A  man  is  such  a  helpless  creetur, — a  man 


58  Harper's  Novelettes 

is  such  a — such  a  tomfool  without  a 
house  and  a  woman  in  it  I  No,  I  ain'ter 
cryin',  either,  but  if  you  darst  touch  me, 
Robert,  I  shall— I  shall  begin  to  .  .  ." 

He  did  not  dare  to  touch  her.  He  was 
a  dull  man,  as  we  have  said.  Before  his 
wet  and  winking  eyes,  before  his  empty 
arms,  she  whirled  and  fled.  He  heard 
her  sob  her  way  up-stairs,  and  heard  her 
lock  her  door. 

She  was  quite  self-possessed  the  next 
morning;  more  so  than  the  man.  Dins- 
more  flung  himself  about  the  house  un 
easily,  and  took  an  after-breakfast  pipe — 
a  secular  amusement  which  he  did  not 
allow  himself  on  Sunday.  When  he 
knocked  the  ashes  out  in  the  hearth  the 
fire  caught  and  blazed  robustly;  he 
watched  it  with  sombre  eyes  till  it  had 
fallen  quite  away. 

"It's  the  last  one,"  he  thought;  he 
gave  the  fender  a  kick  as  he  shoved 
it  into  place. 

They  went  to  church  as  usual,  and 
reflected  what  credit  they  could,  and  such 
discredit  as  they  must,  upon  their  sep 
arate  and  distinct  denominations;  he 
drove  her  both  ways,  and  helped  her  in 
and  out  of  the  buggy.  She  got  up  an 
excellent  Sunday  dinner  for  him,  one  of 


Covered  Embers  59 

her  best,  and  it  must  be  recorded  that 
he  did  generous  justice  to  it,  and  that 
this  gratified  her  very  much.  In  the 
afternoon  she  began  to  grow  a  little  gray 
about  the  mouth,  and  he  noticed  that  her 
hand  fumbled  with  her  apron  when  she 
came  at  last  and  stood  behind  him.  He 
was  laying  the  fire  on  the  cold  hearth. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "you  don't  object, 
do  you?  I  thought  I'd  leave  it  as  it  had 
orter  be.  It  won't — we  sha'n't — I  sha'n't 
set  by  it  any  more,  I  s'pose.  If  you  think 
you're  goin'  to  Mary  Lizzie's,  you  never 
was  more  mistaken  in  your  life,  Diana 
Dinsmore.  You  cant  leave  this  here 
house.  It's  your  house.  Mr.  Herrick's 
got  the  deeds  made  out.  Come  to-morrow 
he'll  pass  'em,  and  you  gotter  stay." 

"  I  ain'ter  goin'ter,"  replied  the  wife, 
with  the  inexorable  obstinacy  of  gentle 
ness.  "  I  ain'ter  goin'ter  turn  you  out. 
It  ain't  gospel." 

"  Well,  it's  law,"  persisted  Dinsmore. 
"  Mr.  Ilerrick  '11  make  you.  You'll  see." 

"Isn't  it  kinder  late  to  be  fightin'  as 
to  which  shall  treat  the  other  prettiest?" 
asked  Mrs.  Dinsmore,  slowly: 

"  By  gum !"  answered  Dinsmore,  "  I 
never  thought  of  that." 

"Robert,"  laying  her  hand  timidly  on 
his  arm,  "  have  you  forgotten — " 
s 


60  Harper's  Novelettes 

"I  hain't  forgotten  a  blessed  thing," 
interrupted  the  husband,  shortly. 

"It's  fourteen  years  —  you  know — 
since — 

"  Lord,  don't  I  know  ?"  groaned  Dins- 
more.  "  I've  thought  about  it  every 
night  I've  set  here  this  two  weeks  past." 

"  Would  you  mind  coming  along  o'  me 
— this  last  time — same's  we've  done  for 
fourteen  years — to  .  .  .to  visit  with  her, 
Robert?  The  star-of -Bethlehem  is  up. 
It's  always  up — in  time  for  Deeny." 

"  It  gnaws  at  me  so,  Anna !"  The  man 
put  his  hand  to  his  heart  as  if  he  were 
undergoing  a  physical  pang.  "  I  always 
feel  it — here,"  he  said. 

"  I  didn't  know  but  you'd  like  to  go 
and  say  good-by  to  Deeny — with  me," 
urged  the  woman,  drooping;  "but  nev 
er  mind !" 

"Oh,  I'll  go!"  cried  Dinsmore;  "of 
course  I'll  go." 

Silently  the  two  went  out  of  the  house, 
and  silently  took  the  road  together. 
They  walked  with  bent  heads.  Their 
feet  seemed  to  carry  them  without  direc 
tion  of  their  wills  to  the  greening,  bud 
ding  village  churchyard.  Anna  held  the 
star-of-Bethlehem  in  her  hand.  Now 
and  then  she  buried  her  face  in  the  silver- 
gray,  lilylike,  starlike  flowers.  Once  he 


Covered  Embers  61 

thought  she  kissed  them,  but  he  did  not 
seem  to  see  or  know  it.  He  seemed  to 
see  nothing,  he  seemed  to  know  noth 
ing,  and  he  had  a  stolid  look  when  they 
came  to  the  little  girl's  grave.  One 
might  have  thought  that  he  did  not  care. 
The  bit  of  marble  flickered  before  his 
eyes  in  the  cool  May  sunlight,  as  if 
it  had  been  a  leaf,  or  some  frail  liv 
ing  thing. 

What  a  little  grave  it  was!  It  had 
never  seemed  so  short  before. 

"  The  letters  need  polishin'  up,"  he 
said ;  he  traced  them  out  with  his  stained 
forefinger. 

DEENY. 

Three  years  old 
When  she  died. 

"  She  would  have  been  seventeen, 
wouldn't  she  ?  I  hadn't  thought  of  that." 

"  Shall  we  divide  'em  up — same  's  we 
always  have?"  asked  Anna,  hesitating. 
She  was  afraid  of  him  even  then,  and 
even  there.  It  was  an  old  habit  and  an 
iron  one.  She  glanced  at  him  depre- 
catingly. 

"  I  don't  know  's  I  care  if  we  do,"  he 
answered.  "  I  s'pose  Deeny'd  like  that." 

Anna  halved  the  flowers  in  silence. 
He  was  conscious  of  wondering  why  she 


62  Harper's  Novelettes 

did  not  cry.  He  laid  the  star-of -Beth 
lehem  on  Deeny's  grave  with  his  huge 
fingers;  they  shook,  and  one  of  the -silver- 
pray  bells  fell.  Anna  picked  it  up  and 
kissed  it  before  she  added  to  it  her  hand 
ful.  He  watched  her  with  wretched  eyes ; 
hers*  leaped,  and  it  was  for  a  moment 
as  if  they  ran  to  him. 

"  There's  Dickson !"  he  said,  suddenly, 
"  and  your  minister's  wife.  And  Mary 
Lizzie." 

The  last  place  in  China  where  grief 
could  shelter  itself  was  in  the  spot  where 
it  grieved  the  sorest;  and  on  the  day 
when  it  had  most  leisure  to  weep  it  had 
least  opportunity.  There  was  110  seclu 
sion  in  the  village  churchyard  on  Sunday 
afternoon.  The  childless  parents  fled  the 
place  before  their  curious  townsfolk,  and, 
climbing  the  old  stone-wall  among  the 
blackberry-vines,  went  home  silently  by 
another  way. 

The  mother  did  not  look  back,  but  the 
father  did  so  once;  it  seemed  to  him  as 
if  the  bit  of  marble  turned  a  little,  like 
something  ^that  watched  them.  But 
marble  does  not  move,  and  Deeny  could 
not.  She  lay  deep  among  the  roots  of 
spring,  with  the  star  -  of  -  Bethlehem 
above  her. 

The  two  came  to  their  home  as  mutely 


Covered  Embers  63 

as  they  had  gone  from  it,  and  made  no 
attempt  to  reassume  the  shield  of  words. 
It  was  as  if  it  had  suddenly  proved 
to  be  made  of  some  false  substance — 
gauze  or  paper  —  and  hung  ragged  in 
their  hands.  Now  they  flung  the  flimsy 
thing  away. 

Anna  laid  tjie  table  for  their  light 
Sunday-night  supper,  and  both  sat  down, 
but  neither  ate.  Pretty  soon  she  came 
back  and  cleared  away  the  dishes.  Dins- 
more  lighted  his  pipe,  and  went  and  sat 
by  the  fireless  hearth.  He  heard  her  stir 
ring  about  'with  her  soft,  housewifely 
step;  she  had  a  light  step  for  so  heavy 
a  woman.  Anna  was  not  awkward;  she 
had  been  a  graceful  girl,  and  pretty- 
he  remembered  how  pretty  she  used  to  be ; 
he  did  not  know  when  he  had  thought 
of  it  before.  lie  had  been  very  much  in 
love  with  her;  so  had  most  of  the  young 
men  in  China;  but  she  had  denied  them 
all  to  marry  him.  Anna  had  always  kept 
something  of  the  look  and  manner  of 
a  woman  who  has  been  ardently  and 
frequently  sought  in  youth,  and  when 
marriage  ceased  to  sustain  the  valuation 
at  which  she  had  been  taught  to  rate 
herself,  she  was  as  perplexed  as  she 
was  wretched.  Dinsmore  pulled  at  his 
pipe  nervously. 


64  Harper's  Novelettes 

"Yes,"  he  thought,  "she  was  a  good- 
looking  girl.  And  Anna's  a  handy  house 
keeper.  If  it  hadn't  'a'  ben  for  bob- 
whizzlin'-  By  gum!"  he  said,  aloud, 
"  if  she  ain'ter  gone  up  -  stairs  with 
out  com  in'  to  set  along  of  me — this 
last  night!" 

For  Anna  had  crept  up-stairs  to  her 
own  room,  and  he  heard  her  lock  her 
door.  He  put  his  pipe  away;  suddenly 
there  was  no  pleasure  in  it  any  more. 
He  stretched  his  legs  out  on  the  cold 
hearth  and,  folding  his  hands,  began  to 
twirl  his  big  thumbs  perplexedly;  his 
head  fell  to  his  breast.  He  must  have 
sat  there  for  some  time.  Presently 
he  said: 

"  Deeny  .  .  .  she  would  ha'  stayed 
along  of  me.  It  would  ha'  ben  somebody. 
.  .  .  No,"  he  added,  on  reflection. 
"  Women  hang  together.  She  would  ha' 
stood  by  her  mother.  ...  I'd  ruther  she 
would,  too.  If  there'd  ever  ben  a  boy, — 
but  there  warn't.  No.  There  warn't  no 
boy.  And  Deeny's  dead." 

He  repeated  the  word  aloud,  two  or 
three  times : 

"Deeny?    Deeny !" 

With  a  cry  the  man  sprang  to  his 
startled  feet.  He  did  not  believe  in 
ghosts;  no  good  Baptist  did;  but  then 


Covered  Embers  65 

and  there  he  was  sure  that  one  had  got 
into  the  house.  It  was  well  fitted  up 
against  burglars,  but  there  were  no 
ghost-locks  on  the  doors  and  windows, 
as  there  are  no  ghost-locks  on  a  father's 
or  a  mother's  heart. 

It  was  his  wife  who  had  frightened  him 
so — as  he  started  to  tell  her,  but  he 
thought  better  of  it.  Her  feet  were  bare, 
like  any  spirit's,  and  her  hand  as  cold 
as  Deeny's;  she  had  come  without  sound 
and  she  stood  without  speech;  though 
the  night  was  warm,  she  had  covered  her 
night-dress  carefully  with  her  blue  flan 
nel  wrapper,  as  if  he  had  been  some  neigh 
bor  or  acquaintance  hurriedly  met  in 
an  emergency. 

"Lord!"  he  said,— "Lord  o'  mercy! 
You  scared  the  sense  outer  me." 

"  Robert,"  she  began  at  once,  "  I  came 
to— I  thought  I'd  come— I  wanted  to  sit 
with  you  this  last  time— if  you  don't 
mind  me.  Do  you,  Robert  ?" 

She  looked  about  timidly.  "There 
ain't  any  chair." 

"Would  you  care,"  asked  Dinsmore, 
humbly,  "if  you  should  set  on  the  arm 
of  mine  ?  Seein'  it's  the  last  time." 

He  sank  back  into  the  big  cushioned 
chair  that  he  had  been  occupying.  After 
a  moment's  hesitation  she  seated  herself 


66  Harper's  Novelettes 

upon  its  arm.  She  did  not  look  at  him, 
but  began  to  talk  at  once:  he  saw  that 
she  had  one  of  those  flowers  thrust  in  the 
bosom  of  her  blue  flannel  gown. 

"  I  brought  it  down  for  you,"  she  said, 
hurriedly,  "  seein'  it's  Deeny's.  I  picked 
it  up  off  the  grave  after  I'd  laid  it  there. 
I  thought  you'd  like  to  keep  it  ...  even 
if  you  took  it  from  .  .  .  me.  Put  it  in 
your  Bible,  will  you,  Rob?  Put  it  on 
that  Jairus  chapter  we  read  together  that 
night  we  buried  her;  about  his  little  girl 
who  was  not  dead  but  sleepeth, — don't  you 
remember  ?  See,  Rob,  what  a  pretty  flow 
er  it  is !  What  a  Deeny  flower !  When  it 
is  a  bud,  it  is  a  lily.  When  it  blossoms, 
it  is  a  star.  I've  been  thinkin'  it's  that 
way  with  Deeny.  When  she  died  she 
was  just  a  baby,  Rob,  no  more'n  a  lily- 
bud — a  little  white  thing.  Then  we  could 
hold  her — and  cuddle  her.  Now  she's 
blossomed,  she  is  a  star,  and  we  can't. 

"  Oh,  she  was  such  a  pretty  baby,  Rob ! 
She  was  such  a  dear  little  girl!  .  .  .  I — 
•I  set  so  much  by  her —  Ah  me!  Ah 
me!  .  .  .  Oh,  Robbie,  don't  blame  me, 
will  you — not  now?  Don't  be  hard  on 
me — if  I  set  and  cry  a  little  .  .  .  about 
.  .  .  about  Deeny  .  .  .  this  last  time  I'll 
get  a  chance?  Nobody  else  cares  about 
Deeny  but  you  'n'  me.  Everybody  elsQ 


Covered  Embers  67 

has  forgotten  Deeny.  She's  nothin'  but 
a  handful  o'  dust  in  the  graveyard  to 
other  folks — just  a  little  dead  baby  four 
teen  years  ago.  .  .  .  It's  only  fathers  and 
mothers  that  love  dead  children  so  long  's 
that.  Why,  Eobbie,  think!  She's  seven 
teen  years  old  to-day!  She's  singin' 
round  heaven — a  grown-up  girl — same  's 
she  would  ha'  ben  singin'  round  this 
house  along  of  you  and  me." 

Dinsmore's  large  face  worked  pitiful 
ly;  a  man  should  not  cry — like  a  woman 
— but  the  tears  came  storming  down. 

"Now,  Anna!  Now,  Anna!"  he  re 
peated,  helplessly.  He  thought  of  Deeny 
as  a  seventeen-year-old  ghost  with  a  harp 
and  wings.  But  her  mother  thought  of 
her  as  an  angel  in  a  long  skirt,  with  a 
lace  stock  and  ribbons. 

"She  was  a  dear  little  thing!"  reiter 
ated  the  woman,  who  was  sobbing  now. 

"  So  she  was,  Anna,  so  she  was !"  the 
father  groaned. 

"  And  she  set  so  much  by  you,  Robbie, 
— climbin'  onto  your  knees  to  pull  your 
whiskers,  and  kissin'  of  you — " 

"  So  she  did,  Nan,  so  she  did!" 

"  And  singin'  of  a  morning  to  wake  us 
up  ...  and  sayin'  her  little  prayers  of 
an  evening — '  Now  I  lay  me ' — so  gentle 
and  so — so  Deeny  " 


68  Harpers  Novelettes 

"  It  gnaws  me — here,"  grasped  the  man ; 
he  laid  his  hand  upon  his  heart,  and 
changed  color.  But  the  woman,  herself 
stupid  with  misery,  went,  uiiobserving,  on : 

"  Rob —  Listen  to  me ;  I've  been 
thinkin'  .  .  .  we  can  divide  everything 
else  .  .  .  houses  V  lands  V  money  V 
all  those  things  that  ain't  of  no  account 
—Mr.  Herrick  can  fix  'em  all  up,  and 
the  law  can  deal  with  them.  But,  Rob, 
we  can't  divide  Deeny  .  .  .  noway  in 
the  world." 

"  That's  a  fact,  we  can't,"  panted  Dins- 
more,  faintly.  "  Who  ever  said  we  want 
ed  to?" 

"The  law  can't  part  off  Deeny,  Rob, 
between  .  .  .  you  and  .  .  .  me.  It  was 
love  made  Deeny,  and  law  can't  un 
make  her.  Love  and  law  can  fight  for 
ever  'n'  ever,  Rob,  but  there's  Deeny. 
Robert? — Say,  Robert?  Did  you  hear 
me  ?— Robert !" 

But  Robert  Dinsmore  did  not  answer 
Diana  his  wife.  His  head  against  the 
tall  easy-chair  suddenly  fell  to  one  side. 
His  big  body  sloped  and  toppled,  and  his 
wife  caught  him  as  he  dropped. 

"He's  got  one  of  his  spells,"  thought 
Anna.  "  I've  killed  him — this  last  night." 

Then  she  fell  upon  him  with  the  hun 
ger  of  her  starved  heart.  She  kissed  him 


Covered  Embers  69 

and  kissed  him,  she  chafed  and  stim 
ulated,  she  wept  and  called,  she  warmed 
him  and  held  him,  and  yearned  over 
him,  and  prayed  over  him,  and  kissed 
him  again. 

"  Oh,  my  man !"  she  cried, — "  my  man, 
my  man!" 

When  Dinsmore  came  to  himself  he 
muttered  a  little,  and  said  queer  things: 

"  I  am  not  dead,  but  sleepeth  .  .  .  I've 
lost  my  chance  to  try  again.  .  .  .  Good 
morning,  sir." 

"  It's  a  stroke,"  thought  Anna.  "  He'll 
miss  his  mind  same  as  Peeler  with  the 
shakin'  palsy." 

But  it  was  not  a  stroke,  and  the  painter 
did  not  miss  his  mind.  He  found  it,  pres 
ently,  all  he  ever  had,  and  perhaps  a  lit 
tle  more.  And  when  he  found  it,  he  per 
ceived  a  marvel. 

On  the  cold  hearth  the  fire  leaped  and 
began  to  burn  joyously.  From  ashes  be 
low  ashes  some  hidden  spark,  some  cov 
ered  coal,  had  caught,  and  in  a  moment 
the  cold  room  went  warm,  and  the  gray 
night  turned  a  royal  color. 

Did  wonders,  like  troubles,  come  to 
gether  ?  For  now  the  man  was  aware 
that  an  unbelievable  thing  had  happened, 
and  this  was  the  greatest  wonder  in  the 


70  Harper's  Novelettes 

world.  Love  had  happened.  Ilia  head 
was  on  a  woman's  breast.  ITe  felt  her 
arms,  her  tears,  her  lips. 

The  miracle  of  married  life  had  hap 
pened.  Long-forgotten  tenderness,  smoth 
ered  and  silent,  had  leaped  from  the  em 
bers  of  cold  years;  it  was  not  dead,  but 
smouldered;  for  love  is  not  a  circum 
stance;  it  is  not  a  state;  it  is  a  liv 
ing  soul. 

"That  you,  Nan?"  he  asked,  feebly. 
"  I  must  have  had  a  spell." 

The  two  sat  in  the  shining,  clasped 
and  still.  She  did  not  cry  any  more. 
She  feared  to  agitate  him,  and  was  very 
quiet.  She  put  up  her  hand  to  his  beard 
and  stroked  his  cheek.  Her  wrapper  fell 
away  from  her  neck,  but  she  did  not 
notice  that  her  throat  was  bare,  until  ho 
turned  his  face  and  kissed  it.  Deeny's 
flower — lilylike,  starlike,  childlike — had 
fallen  from  the  warm  blue  gown,  and  lay 
upon  her  mother's  bosom  beneath  his  lips. 

"  Nan,"  said  Robert  Dinsmore,— "  Nan, 
you  may  bob-whizzle  all  you  want  to." 

"But  I  don't  want  to,  Rob." 

"  And,  Nan,  I  guess  I've  ordered  you 
'round  some." 

"  I'd  rather  you  would !"  cried  the  wife. 
"  Shouldn't  know  you  if  you  didn't. 
What  '11  Mr.  Ilerrick  say?"  she  added, 


Covered  Embers  7* 

in  a  frightened  voice.  It  occurred  to 
her  at  that  moment  that  even  now  the 
statutes  would  require  her  to  live  alone 
in  the  house,  while  Kobert  camped  in 
the  shop. 

Then  Eobert  laughed.  "I'll  risk  Mr. 
J/errick,  by  gum !" 

"  But  the  law,  Kob— 

"Law  be  hanged!  This  ain't  law. 
It's  loveT 

— "  That's  a  clever  fire  of  yours,  Nan," 
he  suggested,  smiling  beatifically  at  the 
hot  birch-blaze.  He  thought  that  she 
had  lighted  it,  and  she  did  not  unde 
ceive  him.  She  and  the  fire  exchanged 
looks,  and  kept  each  other's  counsel.  But 
the  fire  laughed. 


Life's  Accolade 

BY   ABBY    MEGUIRE   ROACH 


r,  there  are  ever  so  many  ways 
of  living;  no  one  can  have 
everything;  whatever  you  do, 
you  miss  something  and  gain  something." 
Miss  Branham  dragged  her  words,  as  if 
they  were  hardly  worth  saying,  anyway: 
she  spoke  with  a  rising  inflection,  and  her 
pointed  eyebrows  emphasized  an  inquir 
ing,  slightly  derogatory  expression.  "  It's 
a  choice  of  what  you  want  most." 

"Choice?  Want?  If  there's  choice  at 
all,  it's  of  what  you  can  get.  Oh,  I 
know  you  don't  like  that  idea,"  he  smiled 
and  shook  his  head  at  her,  "  but  that's 
the  way  things  are.  It's  all  law,  abso 
lutely  neutral:  you  work  with  it  and 
grow,  against  it  and  break,  stay  out  of  it 
and  atrophy." 

"  Still,  the  universe  is  large  enough 
for  the  individual  to  be  an  exception  if 
he  chooses.  And  the  onlooker  has  the 
fun  without  the  work." 


Life's  Accolade  73 

"But  the  work  is  two-thirds  of  the 
fun.  And  you  miss  the  best  points  from 
the  grand  stand." 

"  You  don't  think  experience  invariably 
necessary  to  realization,  do  you  ?  It's  my 
observation  that  experience  is  hiero 
glyphic  ;  the  individual  has  to  supply  the 
key;  and  each  reads  it  his  own  way, — 
the  old  fable  of  (Edipus  and  the  Sphinx. 
Either  sympathy  or  self-consciousness  is 
mostly  a  matter  of  temperament." 

"  But  things  are  always  different  when 
they  happen  to  you.  Most  people  learn 
only  by  seeing  and  feeling. — Or  what's 
life  for?" 

She  smiled  at  his  personalizing  eager 
ness — a  faint  smile,  ironical  but  in 
dulgent.  "Oh,  life!  What's  it  worth, 
anyway  ?" 

"  So  little  that  surely  one  must  get 
all  there  is  out  of  it,"  he  smiled  back, 
an  entirely  different  kind  of  smile. 
Channing's  humor  was  of  the  sort  that 
takes  the  edge  from  misadventure, 
softens  criticism  with  kindliness,  and 
saves  the  person  himself  from  the  egotism 
of  overseriousness.  "  Do  you  know,  I  am 
going  to  call  you  the  Princess  of  Nought : 
hungry  at  the  feast  for  fear  of  poi 
son  in  the  wine.  Have  you  ever" — look 
and  voice  shaded  a  tone  deeper  than 


74  Harper's  Novelettes 

the  casual — "ever  considered  appointing 
a  taster?" 

Her  eyes  slipped  from  his.  "No, 
really,  I'm  not  so  much  afraid  as — 
cross!"  She  laughed.  "Wo  poetize 
about  beauty  and  truth,  as  if  they  went 
together!  Truth  is  ugly.  Beauty  is  a 
dream.  Religion  is  a  goad  or  a  bait. 
Morality  lies  merely  in  authority  or  op 
portunity."  She  spoke  without  em 
phasis,  with  an  amused  drawl  and  ban 
tering  eye.  Channing  wished  she  would 
n't;  she  did  herself  injustice,  he  thought, 
and  made  him  feel  like  one  of  her  speci 
mens,  held  at  arm's  length,  merely 
stimulating  epigrams.  "The  world  is  a 
cheese  too  aged,  unsavory,  requiring  an 
unnatural  appetite.  Charity  is  a  trans 
parent  cloak  for  embarrassing  facts. 
Ideals  are  writing  in  water.  Love  is  a 
euphemism  for  convenience  or  selfishness; 
and  marriage,  a  makeshift., a  compromise/' 

"  So  it's  the  thorn  on  the  rose  that 
pricks,  eh?  Oh,  Nature  must  balance 
things.  The  right  way  to  put  it  is  that 
she  always  sugar-coats  her  pills." 

"  Optimism,"  she  told  him,  "  is  put 
ting  out  your  eyes  to  call  a  dull  day 
bright.  Confess  now,  there's  a  great  deal 
of  mismanagement." 

"But  it's  the  best  world  we  have  at 


Life's  Accolade  75 

present," — beyond  a  gleam  of  apprecia 
tion,  he  refused  to  be  diverted,  for  it  was 
more  than  conversation;  "and  since  it 
is  as  it  is,  the  question  is  how  to 
make  the  best  of  it.  What's  the  use 
of  kicking?" 

"Ah,  that's  the  last  straw!"  she  said, 
and  forgot  to  smile.  "  I  sympathize  with 
the  Confederates  who  preferred  exile  to 
allegiance." 

"What  a  rebel  it  is!"  Channing's 
look  was  wise  and  genial.  "  Millions  for 
free  gifts,  but  for  tribute  never  a  cent. 
When  you  do  fall  in  love  .  .  ."  The  in 
tonation  was  unintentionally  admiring 
and  wistful. 

"I  fall  in  love?  How  absurd!" 
Though  she  laughed,  her  vehemence  was 
suggestive,  and  hastily  recalled  her  to 
guard.  "  Oh  no ;  my  defence  is  not  com 
promise,  but  avoidance,"  she  added, 
dropping  to  her  habitual  drawl.  "After 
all,  one  likes  to  keep  some  illusions!" 
Always  so,  on  the  verge  of  intimacy, 
she  eluded  him  with  the  reserve  of  merri 
ment  or  generalization.  "  See,"  she  fore 
stalled  his  opening  lips,  "what  a  mur 
derous  sunset!" 

He  looked  automatically,  and  instantly 
grew  tense ;  looked  overhead,  behind. 
"  Jove !"  His  head  lifted  in  an  alert 

6 


76  Harper's  Novelettes 

boyish  way  he  had  in  emergencies. 
"  Take  the  /  tiller,"  he  ordered,  still 
bracing  it  with  one  hand,  while  with  the 
other  he  worked  rapidly  to  free  the  fast 
ened  sheet.  "  Now — to  the  left — jam  her 
round — hold  hard !  It's  a  race  for  it." 

It  was:  a  race  with  the  storm.  Busy 
with  his  own  work,  he  hardly  glanced  at 
the  girl  even  with  his  short  commands; 
and  Frieda,  gratified  at  the  tacit  com 
pliment,  gripped  the  helm  till  her 
knuckles  whitened,  and  obeyed.  Her 
eyes  watched  the  grace  and  strength  un 
der  his  flannels  with  the  same  apprecia 
tion  and  response  that  met  the  wind  in 
her  face.  It  was  like  flying,  as  if  they 
had  suddenly  launched  a  new  world  in 
space.  She  shook  back  the  whipped  hair 
and  breathed  deep  and  exultant. 

With  a  final  careen  they  swooped  into 
a  more  sheltered  cove,  and  as  they  ran 
alongside  the  dock,  Channing  remem 
bered  her. 

"  Bully  for  you !  I  never  would  have 
much  opinion  of  any  one  who  couldn't 
take  orders."  Then,  mid -motion,  he 
stopped  and  looked  at  her. 

But  the  boatman  was  hurrying  them. 
"Better  stay  here  a  spell,  sir.  You'll 
never  reach  camp  dry." 

"Never  mind,"  said  Frieda.    "Come." 


Life's  Accolade  77 

As  they  rounded  the  rocky  ledge  into 
view  of  the  open  lake,  the  first  big  drops 
splashed  down,  and  the  storm  rushed 
at  them.  Frieda  leaned  forward  on  it 
and  stopped  to  look.  "Never  mind. 
What's  a  little  wetting?"  Then  sudden 
ly  she  flung  up  her  arms  and  shouted 
against  the  gale. 

"  Great,  isn't  it  ?"  he  agreed,  boyishly, 
and  though  she  looked  amused  depreca 
tion  of  their  enthusiasm,  she  stood  all 
kindled  with  life,  fluttering  in  the  wind. 
"After  all,  on  the  whole,  a  jolly  nice 
world,  eh?"  he  teased.  Her  skirts  beat 
round  him;  a  gust  swayed  her  danger 
ously;  he  flung  out  a  steadying  arm. 
Where  his  hand  touched  hers, both  burned ; 
their  eyes  grew  conscious;  they  had  a 
moment  of  utter  equality  and  sincerity. 
The  man's  very  self  leaped;  all  her  will 
ebbed  from  her,  leaving  a  delicious  weak 
ness.  Their  kiss  was  as  vital  and  spon 
taneous  as  its  breath. 

It  was  the  girl's  first  knowledge  of 
"  life's  sacred  thirst." 

When,  breakfast  over  next  morning, 
Miss  Branham  had  not  appeared,  Chan- 
ning  wondered  about  her  casually.  "  Oh, 
didn't  you  know?  Bad  news  in  her  mail 
last  night.  She's  catching  the  early  boat 
to  Clayton." 


78  Harper's  Novelettes 

All  regardless,  Charming  grabbed  his 
cap  and  ran.  The  gangplank  was  up, 
the  man  with  the  rope  had  jumped 
aboard,  when  Channing  leaped,  clung, 
climbed  over  the  rail. 

He  had  always  thought  Miss  Branham 
thoroughly  patrician,  with  that  hauteur, 
that  faint  insolence,  shadowing  a  gra 
cious  vivacity.  Now  she  retreated  into 
an  arctic  circle  as  he  approached. 

"You  couldn't  have  mistaken!"  He 
was  still  breathing  hard. 

A  movement  dismissed  the  idea  half 
impatiently.  "Why  did  you  do  this? 
You  might  have  respected—  In  any 
case  this  is  not  the  place — 

"  Yes,  it  is,  and  the  time.  If  you  did 
not  mistake,  what  then?" 

She  hesitated ;  then,  though  the  sun  rose 
in  her  face,  turned  away  coolly.  "You 
did.  It  was  just  the  rush  of  things — " 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Channing,  and  smiled 
with  relief.  He  would  never  be  puzzled 
by  her  again.  "  Oh  no.  It  was  that  we 
were  we.  The  rush  of  things  that  we 
were  part  of,  if  you  choose.  You  do 
care.  You've  kept  me  guessing  all  sum 
mer,  though  I've  often  thought  if  some 
thing  could  just  carry  you  out  of  your 
self  and  you  would  be  honest —  Oh, 
why,  why  do  you  fight  me  so  ?" 


Life's  Accolade  79 

The  girl's  habit  of  mockery  and  indif 
ference  was  not  fully  regained.  "And 
why,  why  can  a  man  never  understand 
that  a  girl  may  not  want  to  marry?" 

Slur  of  the  water  against  the  side 
of  the  boat;  throb  of  the  engines;  dis 
connected  voices  from  beyond  their 
world. 

At  last  a  girl's  voice  uncertainly  cold: 
"  Don't  you  think  you  would  really  better 
go  now?  Am  I  not  shamed  enough?" 
So  all  girlhood  since  Eve  in  the  garden 
has  waked  to  knowledge  bewildered  by 
sweet  shame  and  reluctant  longing. 
"I  shall  never  be  self-righteous  or  in 
tolerant  again." 

"  That  you  should  want  me  to  go, 
after  yesterday !" 

"  Oh,  for  that  very  reason." 

Channing  leaned  over  the  rail. 
"  Couldn't  you — trust  me,  and  risk  it 
until — I  can  show  you,  until  we  can — 
talk  things  over?" 

"  If  you  don't  understand  that — " 

"I  do.  I've  tried  to  show  you. — I'm 
so  tied!"  he  chafed.  Then  that  way  of 
lifting  his  head  that  always  touched  a 
pulse  in  her.  "Frieda?"  he  asked  leave. 
Again  their  eyes  had  a  moment  of 
equality  and  sincerity.  "I  thought  yes 
terday  when  we — got  in  the  push,  you 


So  Harper's  Novelettes 

had — caught  on.  It's  life.  It's  not  all 
of  it,  not  nearly  all  we  would  have.  But 
shouldn't  one  have  everything  that's  in 
tended?  Do  you  really  think  it  admira 
ble  to  take  a  vow  of  silence  till  you  can't 
talk,  or  stand  on  one  foot  until  the 
other  dries  up?  And  to  miss  things  be 
cause  one  is  afraid  either  to  live  or  die! 
6  The  coward  dies  a  thousand  deaths/ 
you  remember ;  i  the  brave  man  dies 
but  once/  " 

"  It's  not  that  I'm  afraid  of  pain  or 
responsibility.  I  could  sacrifice  every 
thing  for  a  fine  love,  but  would  a  fine 
love  ask  it?" 

"  But,  Frieda,  can't  you  see  that  it's 
all  like  the  stars  and  the  flowers?  Do 
you  think  I  would  ask  you  to  give  up 
what  I  couldn't  love  you  without?  Do 
you  imagine  our  love  would  take  it? 
Have  eighteen  centuries  of  the  Virgin 
and  her  Child  given  you  no  traditions  of 
the  purity  of  motherhood  ?  Are  only  com 
mon  women  to  be  mothers,  then  ?  Life  is 
to  give  life.  Life  rationalizes  love." 

"That's  another  thing."  She  spoke 
steadily  now.  "  Can  you  really  think  it 
kind  or  fair  to — give  life,  consider 
ing  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  you  don't  believe  those  things ! 
Why,  isn't  it  worth  anything  just  to  have  v 


Life's  Accolade  81 

the  chance  of  yesterday  ?  Oh,  there  is  so 
much  to  say!  It  may  be  all  right  for 
some  to  keep  out  of  it,  but  you  have  a 
splendid  spirit  if  you  would  just  trust 
it,  and  one  has  to  live  the  life  that 
comes  to  him:  send  me  away  now  and 
you  maim  yourself.  .  .  .  Look  at  it  this 
way,  dear:  We  see  only  the  surface 
of  other  people's  lives,  not  their  inner 
compensations;  because  things  are  yours, 
they  are  interesting,  and  important,  and 
nice.  Evil  is  only  in  misuse.  Life  will 
be  what  we  make  it,  what  we  are.  Don't 
you  know  I  would  be  as  slow  as  you  to 
cheapen  it?  To  be  happy  with  you  I 
would  first  have  to  make  you  happy  with 
me. — Frieda!  Look  at  me,  won't  you? 
Let  me  see  what  you  think." 

Her  face  lifted  slowly,  eyes  dizzy  from 
the  running  water.  "  Oh,  I  don't  know. 
Can  we  make  it  like  that?  Can  you  keep 
me  seeing  it  so?" 

Their  brief  engagement  was  whole 
somely  busy  with  diverting  superficiali 
ties — clothes,  ceremony,  trip,  the  surface 
interest  of  outsiders.  Sheer  happiness 
and  excitement  gave  the  days  an  impetus, 
a  glamour;  made  the  girl  uiiwontedly 
sweet,  a  most  unclouded  bride. 

But  Mrs.  Channing  returned  from 
their  month  in  the  Berkshirea  more  veiled 


82  Harper's  Novelettes 

i 

than  ever  in  languor  and  superiority. 
She  was  conscious  of  people's  eyes,  too 
conscious  of  their  minds.  Sentiment, 
his  or  hers,  she  protected  or  avoided 
with  deprecatory  nonchalance.  All  the 
threads  of  her  thought  were  tangled. 
How  could  a  public  ratification  and  so 
cial  sanction  make  right  the  reversal  of 
all  her  old  instinct  and  training?  With 
such  confusion  within  no  windows  were 
open  to  spectators. 

His  friends  thought  her  too  self- 
contained  and  sarcastic.  "  They're  afraid 
of  you,"  Channing  teased,  "  as  I  used  to 
be, — you're  so  clever!" 

"Dear  me!  that's  too  bad!  I  ought 
to  be  cleverer  than  that." 

She  had  been  warned  that  the  first 
year  determined  all  the  rest.  So,  fearful 
of  not  beginning  right,  of  spoiling  him, 
she  determinedly  kept  her  fingers  from 
their  impulses  toward  a  loosened  tie  or 
a  shirt  in  need  of  studs.  When  he  gave 
her  a  brooch  she  considered  a  bad  bargain 
she  exchanged  it  with  a  practicality  and 
frankness  that  would  have  made  for  com 
fort  could  she  have  done  it  less  aggres 
sively.  She  was  jealous  of  all  his  old 
attentions,  public  and  private,  and  the 
way  she  pulled  the  string  to  make  him 
step  up,  or  show  off,  first  puzzled,  then 


Life's  Accolade  83 

nettled,  the  self-respecting  chap  she  had 
married.  A  habit  of  sparring  grew  be 
tween  them  in  silence  and  the  dark.  He 
had  looked  forward  particularly  to  her 
always  greeting  his  home-coming;  and 
Frieda  decided  it  unwise  to  encourage 
any  such  expectations  of  dictatorship. 
Once  home,  he  wanted  to  stay  there  and 
have  her  to  himself;  and  Frieda  feared 
his  growing  indolent  about  evening 
clothes,  their  getting  into  a  rut.  Other 
men  tired  her;  she  was  too  absorbed  in 
herself  to  be  interested  in  other  women; 
and  the  whole  thing  bored  Channing  so 
patently  she  had  no  pleasure,  anyway,  and 
was  embarrassed  for  him.  So,  with  subtle 
logic,  she  took  to  going  alone, — which 
was  still  less  pleasure  and  a  delicious 
reversal  of  traditions.  Yet  if  Channing 
was  half  an  hour  late  to  dinner,  she  had 
received  him  from  the  ambulance,  raised 
his  tombstone,  and,  at  eighty,  was  sup 
porting  herself  basket-weaving, — when  he 
came  —  to  be  reproached  because  the 
soufflee  had  fallen. 

It  was  only  moods  and  phases,  simply 
two  young  folks  in  new  and  complicated 
conditions,  trying  to  avoid  the  mistakes 
and  absurdities  they  knew,  and  making 
their  own.  The  mock-duel  was  already 
slackening  with  returning  balance  and 


84  Harper's  Novelettes 

adjustment,  -when  the  ond  of  all  going 
out  came  naturally. 

Mrs.  Charming  was  refolding  a  fluffy 
blue  and  white  something  into  its  box, 
when  a  knock  sounded.  "Who  is  it?" 
The  covering  -  papers  dropped  guiltily. 
"Oh,  you,  dear?  Come  in.  See  what 
Clara  Hardy  sent  me — the  dear  girl  that 
she  is!  I  said  the  other  day  it  would 
have  been  nice  to  wait  till  I  was  quite 
ready;  and  she  writes  that  every  stitch 
in  the  cloak  stands  for  envy  and  regret 
from  one  who  waited  too  long.  Poor 
old  girl!" 

"  I've  been  wondering  if  I  mightn't 
be  allowed  in  that  contribution-box,  too. 
Could  you  use  this?"  Channing  offered 
it  modestly,  inquiringly,  as  befits  one 
experienced  in  intruding  into  the  fem 
inine  domain. 

"  Why,  yes."  Frieda  took  it.  "  That's 
very  nice."  She  never  could  gush.  Oc 
casion  for  thanks  affected  her  like  ex 
pectation,  demand;  stiffened  her.  All 
her  life  she  had  been  fluid  to  love,  ice 
to  constraint,  so  that  even  love  had  to 
be  wary  about  implying  a  must.  Now 
her  eyes  filled,  but  she  looked  hurriedly 
away  to  hide  it. 

Channing  watched  her,  satisfied.  "  And 
you're  not  antagonistic  any  more?" 


Life's  Accolade  85 

The  color  dropped  from  her  very  lips, 
but  she  turned  toward,  not  from  him. 
"  Don't  make  me  say  too  much  yet.  It's 
the  thought!  And  I've  been  so  hurried; 
hardly  used  to  the  idea  of  things  before 
they're  on  me." 

"And  hardly  on  you  before  they're 
over,"  he  said. 

It  was  over  and  Frieda  slept,  and 
now  woke,  softened  and  relaxed  through 
all  her  nature.  "  It  was  worth  the  pain, 
dear,"  she  told  him,  "to  know  this 
freedom  from  it.  I  have  never  felt  so 
sweet  and  light  before. — But  sit  close; 
it  was  so  terribly  lonely.  I  suppose  death 
is  like  that,  and  life;  through  all  the 
big  experiences  one  goes  alone." 

Frieda  had  never  been  so  pretty,  so 
light-hearted,  so  natural,  as  in  the  next 
few  months.  Though  that  ultimate  mo 
ment  on  the  rocks  had  never  recurred,  its 
memory  vibrated  still  with  a  sweep  and 
uplift.  Affection  and  romance  were  al 
chemists  transmuting  common  things  to 
gold.  She  reversed  her  old  proposition — 
passion  did  not  degrade  love  so  much 
as  love  ennobled  passion.  There  was  new 
meaning  in  those  old  folk-tales  where 
the  gods  visit  men  in  servile  or  common 
place  disguises.  Motherhood  brought  her 


86  Harper's  Novelettes 

the  woman's  ecstatic  vision  of  the  divin 
ity  of  life,  that  makes  a  Madonna  even 
of  the  peasant  newly  initiated.  Men  see 
life  cleanly,  as  fact,  taken  for  granted: 
their  attitude  was  an  enlightening-  para 
dox  of  Frieda.  But  the  woman  must 
idealize;  like  Murillo's  Virgin,  enter 
ing  motherhood,  far  above  earth,  soli 
tary,  in  a  dream -cloud  of  glorified 
babyhood.  When  Frieda  lifted  her  little 
one,  that  suction  that  seemed  to  be  in  the 
whole  small  body  as  well  as  the  tiny  cling 
ing  palms  called  out  all  her  chivalry ;  the 
fuzz  on  the  little  crown  against  her  cheek 
seemed  the  very  bloom  of  life.  Yes,  in 
deed,  life  rationalized  love.  Though  with 
her  fear  of  melodrama,  she  flung  a  glitter 
of  jest  over  her  emotions,  it  had  the  soft 
brightness  of  tears.  As  shyly,  as  imper 
ceptibly  as  a  rose,  she  began  to  blossom. 

Channing  knew  her  well  enough  to 
know  how  mere  a  trifle,  even  the  con 
sciousness  of  observation,  would  check 
that  delicate  unfoldment.  And  yet — she 
was  so  sweet.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  she  closed  like  a  touch-me- 
not;  into  a  quiet  coldnessthat  neither  com 
plained  nor  relented  for  all  his  effort. 

"Frieda  dear.  I'll  take  everything 
from  you  I  can.  Get  another  maid. 
Save  yourself." 


Life's  Accolade  87 

"  Save  myself,"  she  repeated,  and 
stung  him. 

"  Oh,  this  is  not  all  of  life,  you  will 
recall,"  she  reminded  him,  when  he  at 
tempted  to  sympathize  with  her  as  she 
freshened  for  second  use  the  little  gar 
ments  hardly  outgrown. 

Channing  had  memories  himself—  "  To 
be  happy  with  you  I  would  first  have  to 
make  you  happy  with  me." 

Frieda  was  thrown  back  on  her  old 
nausea  of  sex,  and  its  antagonism,  now 
made  personal,  and  exaggerated,  distort 
ed,  like  a  shadow.  It  was  true — Love  was 
a  euphemism  for  convenience  or  self- 
indulgence.  Ideals — and  promises — were 
writing  in  water.  Trust  and  generosity  only 
offered  opportunities  to  take  advantage. 

When  the  nurse  presented  Channing 
to  his  second  daughter,  appending  the 
optimistic,  "  She's  all  right  now,  Mrs. 
Channing  is,"  Frieda  opened  her  eyes 
on  them  both  with  her  flitting  ironic  smile. 

She  had  always  a  point  of  wit  to  prick 
such  bubbles  of  convention. 

"  Selfishness !"  Clara  Hardy  reproached 
her. 

"  Now,  my  dear,  which  side  in  love 
•can  cast  that  first  stone?" 

"All  the  same,  altruism  is  the  ethics 
of  sex." 


Harper's  Novelettes 

a  Undoubtedly  men  have  made  it  so 
for  the  women! — Why  is  it  always  the 
woman  who  must  give  up? — Is  it  fair 
that  she  should  pay  the  penalty  with  what 
is  usually  purely  vicarious  suffering?" 

The  physician,  comprehending  the  un 
spoken,  had  delicately  assured  Channing 
that  when  it  was  all  over  it  would  be  all 
over.  But  doubtless  it  had  been  too  much 
for  Frieda.  A  reaction  was  natural  from 
such  rapid  living.  Her  present  depres 
sion  was  far  more  profound  than  her  old 
scepticism.  Life  was  to  give  life;  life 
rationalized  love:  but  did  anything  ra 
tionalize  life?  Love,  work,  heaven?  At 
best  stimulants  or  narcotics.  And  she 
was  involving  others  in  this  situation 
requiring  so  much  philosophy!  Her 
strength  did  not  come  quickly.  And  the 
little  new  life  was  as  flickering  as  candle- 
flame.  Frieda  sheltered  it  with  a  pas 
sion  of  tenderness  and  apology  and  jea 
lous  exclusion  that  shut  Channing  out 
from  all  opportunity  with  her  or  the 
child:  until  one  midnight  he  resolutely 
took  the  baby  from  her  arms, — "  You 
must  sleep,  Frieda." 

Then  the  utmost  she  could  concede 
was  to  turn  without  a  word  and  lie  down. 

When  she  woke  in  the  dawn  he  was 
sitting  in  the  big  chair,  its  high  arms 


Life's  Accolade  89 

supporting  his  exhausted  elbows.  The 
trouble  in  his  face  was  more  than  weari 
ness.  Had  she  gone  beyond  fairness? 
Where  was  the  generosity  learned  with 
feelf-knowledge  from  that  moment  of  life 
on  the  rocks?  He  did  pay  part  of  the 
price,  and  he  paid  it  cheerfully.  Hard 
work  was  telling  on  his  practice  and 
every  advantage  he  turned  to  her.  With 
what  good  humor  he  met  the  discomforts 
her  disabilities  had  let  increase  in  the 
house.  What  sweetening  salt  his  whole- 
someness  brought  to  things.  He  said 
one  could  only  suppose  that  what  was 
obviously  intended  was  right.  For  his 
part  he  could  not  doubt  that  there  was 
some  point  to  it  all.  And  in  every  un 
certainty  he  believed  in  taking  the  high 
est  chances. 

She  had  overheard  him  that  evening 
with  some  man  with  a  "  tough  luck " 
story.  "  Nonsense !"  Channing  answered, 
and  she  had  guessed  that  spirited  lift  of 
the  head.  "  We  have  to  stand  for  what 
we  do.  Do  your  best;  try  not  to  repeat 
a  mistake;  and  trust  the  rest."  He  had 
the  courage  of  life  as  well  as  its  joy. 
Would  she  want  any  of  the  edge  of  that 
keen  spirit  dulled?  She  did  like  him, 
admire  him!  Her  tenderness  glowed 
warm  as  a  banked  fire. 


90  Harper's  Novelettes 

Reluctantly,  mastered,  she  slipped 
over  to  him.  "Can't  you  put  her  down 
now?  How  your  arms  must  feel!" 

He  looked  at  her  tentatively.  "  Feel 
pretty  much  as  Moses  did,  I  fancy,  with 
Aaron  and  Hur  supporting  his  arms 
while  he  held  up  the  children  of  Israel — 
and  prayed,"  he  added,  with  something 
back  of  the  genial  gleam. 

Frieda  leaned  over  from  behind — a 
familiar  little  imp  peeping  from  the 
corner  of  her  eye,  a  wan  little  imp,  but 
tantalizing  as  ever.  Something  brushed 
his  cheek  as  soft  and  fugitive  as  a  butter 
fly's  wing.  "  Is  that  the  answer?"  Then, 
across  the  room,  she  laughed  at  his  abrupt 
remembrance  of  his  paternal  handicap 
and  caution. 

It  was  not  forgiveness,  she  told  herself, 
but  justice,  and  more:  with  no  school 
girl  sentimentality  she  recognized  his  na 
ture  as  higher  than  hers,  saner,  really 
sweeter-minded,  braver.  Even  his  fail 
ings  were  those  of  strength  and  gener 
osity;  hers,  she  scorned  herself,  of  nig 
gardliness,  morbidness.  This,  from  a 
woman  to  whom  masculinity  had  been 
itself  the  primary  fault;  to  whom  fine 
ness  was  of  the  feminine  gender  alone! 
In  her  devotion  to  this  new  revelation 
she  would  have  welcomed  the  proof  of 


Life's  Accolade  91 

martyrdom.  She  could  repeat  the  past 
year  at  once,  she  felt,  with  what  differ 
ent  spirit! 

Then  that  Channing,  just  when  she 
was  ready  for  unconditional  surrender, 
should  concede  her  grievances  and  offer 
lavish  indemnity,  completed  the  conquest 
of  her  loyalty;  all  the  more  for  his  per 
fect  guiltlessness  of  diplomacy. 

Frieda  thought  she  had  never  known 
love  until  this  second  child  wrung  it 
from  her  inhospitality.  (So  it  wasn't 
purely  vicarious  suffering,  after  all  ?) 
Baby  Clare  had  always  been  a  joy;  but 
her  feeling  for  Fee  (the  name  Clare 
distilled  from  Frieda  to  fit  the  mite)  was 
too  intense  and  insecure  for  joy.  It  was 
amends  as  well.  Frieda  loved  her  so 
it  hurt,  it  frightened  her. 

"  I  didn't  see  how  I  was  to  be  equal 
to  it,"  she  half  apologized  to  Clara 
Hardy.  "But  it  doesn't  seem  to  make 
much  difference.  The  first  took  all  my 
time.  A  dozen  couldn't  do  more." 

Now  and  then  as  she  glowed  over  them 
the  abrupt  consciousness  of  Channing's 
approving  eyes  stiffened  her  like  an  elec 
tric  shock.  Nevertheless,  more  and  more 
life  and  nature  had  their  way  with  her. 
She  had  never  doubted  the  value  of  the 
children;  but  now  it  was  all  actualized. 


92  Harper's  Novelettes 

Already  her  plans  for  them  gave  her 
a  hold  on  the  future,  on  a  longer  future 
than  the  individual's.  In  the  promise 
of  evolution  she  saw  them  as  an  oppor 
tunity,  and  felt  herself  justified  in  them. 
Nor  could  she  help  enjoying  this  fulness 
of  life,  the  rising  tide  of  vitality  and 
maturity  as  Channing  guarded  her  back 
to  vigor.  Her  quizzical  belittling  of 
feeling,  her  shyness  of  demonstration, 
were  partly  fear  of  the  ridiculous:  she 
had  not  understood  the  dignity  of  this 
softening  and  expansion  of  her  nature, 
the  luxury  of  easy  tears  and  laughter, 
the  enrichment  of  mere  emotion.  Her 
whole  personality  took  on  color  and 
aroma.  After  all,  love  needed  nothing 
but  itself  to  rationalize  it.  And  so  with 
life.  Everything  was  worth  its  price; 
the  price  was  worth  itself. 

After  long  service  and  vigil  she  stood 
knighted  by  the  stroke  of  life. 

Beauty  and  truth  were  reconciled. 
Things  were  good  enough  as  they  are, 
even  without  the  golden  touch  of  Midas 
love  or  humor's  sweetening  salt.  Near 
ness  had  shown  her  things  in  scale.  Suf 
fering  had  dignified  the  imperative.  The 
end  had  justified  the  means.  Even  of  the 
means, — the  impersonal,  which  is  the  at 
titude  of  science  and  art,  is  also  the  at- 


Life's  Accolade  93 

titude  of  life.  Nothing  of  itself  is  com 
mon  or  unclean.  Evil  is  not  inherent  in 
things  any  more  than  modesty  can  be 
defined  as  clothes.  An  enveloping  veil 
may  be  suggestive  of  vulgarity,  and 
nudity  may  front  you  with  "  formidable 
innocence."  In  the  last  analysis  purity 
is  but  clear  vision.  And  Frieda's  old 
puzzle  over  the  distinctions  between  the 
right  and  wrong  of  passion  penetrated 
to  this — that  the  right  of  passion  lay  in 
its  not  wronging  love. 

Clara  Hardy  found  her  on  the  nursery 
floor,  buried  under  toys,  her  hair  pulled 
and  tousled  to  a  mist. 

"  Take  the  Morris  chair,  Clara.  Oh  no, 
it's  not  too  far  back.  It's  delightful  once 
you're  in.  But  it's  like  love — for  it  to  be 
any  comfort  you  have  to  give  up  to  it." 

Clara,  sinking  back,  dropped  a  photo 
graph  into  Frieda's  lap.  "  I  came  across 
that  picture  of  Mrs.  Channing,  the  bride ; 
and  it  brought  me  to  see  you.  My  dear, 
you  were  handsome  always,  but  now 
you're  lovely!" 

"  Hear !  Hear !  Harry's  been  talking 
to  you.  My  husband  and  children  think 
me  the  most  beautiful  thing  that  ever 
was.  Obliging  of  them,  isn't  it?  Really 
it's  quite  an  incentive  to  keep  up  the 
illusion.  I'm  not  going  to  tell  them  bet- 


94  Harper's  Novelettes 

ter.  They  might  think  me  in  a  position 
to  know." 

"  What  a  cynic  you  were !" 

"O — h,  it  was  all  true  enough;  but  so 
many  other  things  are  just  as  true. 
Frieda  Branham  may  well  look  rather 
contemptuously  on  Mrs.  Chaiming,  who 
does  all  the  things  she  deplored — com 
promises,  goes  with  the  current.  But 
Mrs.  Channing  can  afford  to  be  equally 
superior, — she's  a  deal  happier  and  wiser 
than  Miss  Branham. — Do  you  know,  I 
believe  that  it  is  one  of  the  greatest 
gains  in  marriage — the  wider  outlook. 
Each  gets  to  see  the  other's  side  of  life; 
and  then  the  man  lets  the  woman  into 
bigger  concerns  than  her  sewing-machine 
and  gas-range,  out  of  the  personal  into 
the  general.  Aren't  you  glad  you  live  in 
the  day  of  electricity  and  all  this  talk 
of  the  future  of  the  Anglo-Saxon? — 
These,"  beginning  to  remove  the  debris 
from  her  lap  in  the  hope  of  rising  in  life 
herself,  "are  symbols  and  prophecies. 
This  costume,  for  instance,  is  oracular. 
Fee,  whose  signature  is  in  these  needle- 
prick  stains,  will  some  day  be  a  great 
milliner,  with  suave  complimentary  man 
ner  and  soaring  bank-account." 

"I  hope  you  will  teach  them  some 
thing  useful." 


Life's  Accolade  95 

"  We  mean  to." 

"  I  know  what  I  want  to  bo,"  fluted 
Baby  Clare,  unexpectedly. 

"Yes,  dear?" 

"  A  little  mother,  like  mamma." 

"You  darling!"  her  godmother  wept. 
And  Frieda's  face  shivered  with  emotion 
like  a  mirror  flashed  in  sunlight. 

"  Only  I'd  have  a  boy,  too,"  the  child 
wished.  "  Couldn't  you  get  one,  mam 
ma,  for  us  to  play  with?" 

The  women  were  glad  to  laugh.  "  May 
be,"  Frieda  answered.  "And  perhaps 
mamma  will  after  while,"  she  admitted, 
with  a  fine  color. 

Clara's  brows  lifted  in  interrogation, 
and  Frieda's  lids  fell. 

Then  they  saw  Channing  in  the  door. 

"  Did  you  hear  that  unprogressive 
daughter  of  yours?"  Frieda  asked  him, 
brushing  a  bit  of  lint  from  his  shoulder 
with  a  touch  that  was  a  caress.  Chan- 
ning's  smile  was  response.  Love  had 
grown  so  instinctive,  endearment  so 
habitual,  it  showed  now,  even  at  times 
before  others,  without  self-consciousness 
or  bad  taste. 

Clara  gone,  Channing  himself  looked 
inquiry  at  his  wife.  m  Their  eyes  met  with 
the  intelligence  of  a  mutual  memory — 
the  memory  of  just  such  a  moment  as 


96  Harper's  Novelettes 

had  constituted  their  spiritual  marriage 
on  the  rocks.  Then  a  mist  gathered 
across  his. 

But  Frieda  was  illuminated.  "  Oh, 
he'll  be  well  and  beautiful  and  happy, 
— you'll  see, — born  so! — Do  you  remem 
ber  that  day  on  the  lake,  dear  (I'm  not 
accusing  you  of  softening  of  the  brain!), 
when  we  got  in  the  push,  as  you  said, 
and  you  thought  I  had  caught  on?  I 
had,  more  or  less,  but  I  couldn't  give 
up  all  at  once.  I  don't  admit  now  that 
I  couldn't  have  learned  otherwise,  but  / 
wouldn't:  I  had  to  be  carried  away  be 
cause  I  wouldn't  let  myself  go.  It  came 
hard  to  learn  trust  and  obedience;  to 
understand  how  one  saves  his  life  by 
losing  it;  to  know  that  Life  is  to  know 
the  Power,  and  be  a  part  of  it,  and  work 
with  it :  and  that  happiness  depends  not  so 
much  on  things  or  circumstances,  or  even 
on  work  or  love,  as  on  being  in  tune." 

"Now  that's  strange,"  Channing  con 
sidered,  "that  what  has  been  teaching 
you  to  give  up  has  been  teaching  me  not 
to. — And  yet  .  .  ."  he  looked  troubled, 
"...  after  all  ...  Things  aren't  turn 
ing  out  exactly  as  .  .  ." 

"We  promised  ourselves,"  she  smiled 
at  him,  too  assured  of  him  now  to  calcu 
late  or  be  on  the  defensive.  "  Neither 


Life's  Accolade  97 

of  us  understood.  But,  dear  boy,  it's  all 
right.  Why  shouldn't  I  do  my  work? 
And  what  difference  does  it  make  which 
way  one  lives,  just  so  he  really  lives  ?" 


The  Bond 

BY   EMERY   POTTLE 


SHE  was  complete,  perfected,  one 
might  almost  dare  the  word — ele 
gant;  "fine  lady"  was  so  beauti 
fully  a  part  of  her— was  her,  indeed. 
Keppel,  who  had  always  apprehended 
things  quite  out  of  himself,  whose  per 
ceptions,  like  the  rays  of  a  candle,  con 
stantly  struck  and  illumined  and  com 
passed  a  world  which,  whatever  it  might 
be,  wasn't  as  yet  his,  knew  her  at  once 
for  the  realest  thing  of  her  kind.  For 
him  there  was  first  the  joy  of  knowing 
— just  as  for  the  humble  collector  there 
is  the  joy  of  knowing  a  perfect  Gains 
borough,  for  instance,  though  possession 
is  another  matter. 

But  it  was,  after  all,  destined  to  be  pos 
session  for  Keppel.  How  it  came  about 
— this  possession,  in  its  despair,  its  hope, 
its  humility,  its  frightened  courage,  its 
despondency,  and  its  last  ultimate  siege 
and  storm,  that  recognized  no  barrier 


The  Bond  99 

and  assailed  furiously,  till  she  was  won, 
till  Frances  was  his  wife — a  little  pant 
ing,  a  little  startled,  but  wonderfully  ad 
miring  of  his  strength, — how  all  this 
came  about  Keppel  could  not  think  out. 
Looked  at  calmly — not  a  common  quality 
of  his  own  view — it  all  came  to  an  ac 
knowledgment  of  Keppel's  real  worth — 
worth  for  Frances,  at  least. 

There  she  was  —  Frances  —  anyway. 
Keppel  loved  the  fact  of  her,  the  sense  of 
her,  as  his  wife!  His  love  of  what 
she  was,  what  she  represented,  almost 
equalled,  in  a  way,  his  love  of  her.  It  was 
nothing  to  Keppel's  discredit  that  he  so 
strongly  cherished  the  pride  of  posses 
sion;  pride  that  took  itself  out  in  little 
ways  of  congratulation,  wonder,  and  sat 
isfaction.  His  whole  attitude  toward 
Frances  and  what  she  represented  to 
him  was  a  nice  part  of  his  sensitiveness 
to  the  best  things — things  that  in  reality 
belonged  to  him,  though  his  earlier  life 
had  held  them  in  a  vague  perspective  only. 

In  his  eagerness  to  show  her  how  far 
he  had  gone,  how  clearly  he  saw  the 
values  of  his  canvas,  Keppel  had  spoken, 
at  first,  lightly  of  this  earlier  life,  though 
not  with  shame.  He  gave  her  the  truth 
of  it,  but  he  gave  it  humorously,  with  the 
result  that  Frances  saw  it,  as  he  made 


ioo  Harper's  Novelettes 

her,  of  no  great  seriousness.  The  sum 
that  she  had  to  make  out  of  his  home, 
his  friends,  above  all,  his  kindred, 
amounted  of  necessity  to  something 
rather  unimportant.  It  was  a  relief  to 
find  it  so.  Not  only  were  complications 
lessened,  but  he  assumed  a  nearer  valua 
tion  in  her  eyes. 

After  their  marriage  in  Paris — which, 
it  must  be  confessed,  had  been  rather 
tumultuous  and  hurried,  with  little  time 
on  either  side  for  subdued  realization  of 
what  each  was  getting — the  first  month 
was  their  own,  and  perfectly  their  own. 
In  the  absorption  of  sharing  all  of  him 
self,  Keppel  had  no  chance  for  the  first 
old  fear  to  creep  in — the  fear  that 
Frances  was,  after  all,  too  far  removed 
from  him  by  virtue  of  her  ancestry,  her 
fortune,  her  attenuation  of  fineness. 
And  as  for  her,  she  accepted  Keppel  so 
generously,  and,  indeed,  so  simply,  that 
what  she  was  she  made  him,  unquestion- 
ingly.  They  both  felt  it — this  goodness 
of  themselves,  though  it  wasn't,  of  course, 
a  thing  to  put  into  words. 

There  was  one  thing,  it  happened  later, 
that  Frances  was  not  to  understand 
about  Keppel,  nor  could  it  be  expected 
of  her,  in  view  of  all  the  circumstances. 
She,  herself,  had  never  known  it,  for 


The  Bond  101 

her  girlhood  had  been  spent  almost 
wholly  in  travel  abroad;  and  that,  too, 
without  parents,  for  they  had  died  out  of 
her  memory.  Life  had  resulted  for  her 
in  an  existence  with  a  guardian's  family, 
who,  however  excellent  in  attitude  they 
were,  made  few  attempts  to  establish  a 
relation  with  their  ward  to  simulate 
blood-kinship.  Therefore  the  incompre 
hensible  was  destined  to  be  Keppel's 
punctilious  observance  of  close  relations 
with  his  relatives. 

Heaven  knows  he  had  ample  oppor 
tunity  to  exhibit  this  after  they  were 
back  from  Europe. 

It  was  his  mother  first  who  came, 
naturally  enough. 

"  I  hope,  tremendously,  you'll  like  her," 
said  Keppel,  nervously,  the  day  of  her  ar 
rival.  "  She's  been  so  fine  always  to  me." 

"Will  she  like  me?"  was  Frances's 
quick  question. 

"You're  my  wife,"  he  laughed — and 
that,  to  him,  covered  the  ground. 

"  That  oughtn't  to  be  the  real  basis  of 
liking,"  she  protested.  "  She  must  like 
me  for  me  if  we  are  to  get  on." 

"  Oh,  she'll  like  you,"  he  replied,  easily. 

At  the  time  of  it,  Frances  adequately 
and  graciously  met  a  situation  which 
on  the  whole  was  difficult.  Keppel's 


io2  Harper's  Novelettes 

mother  was  difficult  and  rather  captious. 
The  fact  that  the  case  should  have  been 
reversed — that  the  graciousness,  if  at  all, 
should  have  been  the  other  way — was,  to 
Keppel,  with  his  tingling  sensitiveness  to 
all  the  meeting  implied,  not  lost  sight  of. 
His  mother  was  to  him,  above  all  else — 
and  he  saw  all  there  was  to  be  seen, — just 
that — his  mother.  He  was  jealous  for 
her  position. 

The  only  admission  of  it — the  disparity 
between  Frances  and  his  mother — that  he 
actually  put  into  words  was  the  day  his 
mother  went  away.  It  couldn't  well  have 
been  harder  for  Keppel.  She  called  him 
to  her  room  and  took  out  of  her  trunk 
a  collar — a  thing  of  magenta  velvet  and 
lattice-work  and  seed-pearls. 

"  I  want  to  give  her  something, 
Richie,"  she  said,  embarrassedly ;  "would 
she  like  this?" 

The  possibilities  of  its  effect  on 
Frances  flashed  over  him  completely,  but 
he  met  the  moment  bravely. 

"  I  wouldn't,  mother,"  he  said,  gently. 
"  Frances  has  so  many  things  of  that 
sort.  You  keep  it  yourself — I  would  if 
I  were  you." 

"Maybe  she's  too  proud  to  take  it?" 
his  mother  hazarded. 

"  Oh,  it's  not  that— oh  no !    Only  she'd 


The  Bond  103 

rather  have  something  that  you  have 
made  yourself." 

It  was  not  the  notion  of  any  smallness 
in  Frances  that  might  belittle  the  gift; 
it  was  the  facing  of  the  fact  that  he 
knew,  as  she  would  know — hide  it  as 
they  might, — the  awfulness  of  the  collar 
translated  into  his  mother,  which  gave 
Keppel  his  qualm. 

After  £he  had  gone,  beyond  their  talk, 
which  had  to  be  all  on  the  outside  of 
things,  his  mother  was  a  topic  Keppel 
and  his  wife  couldn't  very  well  voice, 
with  truth.  The  inflicted  silence  was  a 
tangible  hurt  to  him  after  that. 

Then  there  were  his  sisters — he  had 
talked  of  them  repeatedly  to  Frances. 
"  They're  such  nice  girls,"  he  was  always 
saying.  But  to  her  request,  "  Tell  rne 
all  about  them,  how  nice  they  are,"  he 
usually  gave  a  vague  and  laughing  an 
swer  that  rather  unprepared  her  for  the 
meeting.  They  were  nice — his  sisters. 
Nice  in  a  blowzy,  generous,  red-cheeked, 
utterly  irresponsible  way — a  way  that  ex 
pressed  itself  in  good-natured  jesting, 
frank  curiosity  over  Frances's  life,  her 
habits,  her  clothes,  her  fashion  of  doing 
her  hair,  and  in  an  innocent  aptitude  for 
hitting  hard  her  most  cherished  reserves. 

"  Now  that  you're  in  the  family,"  was 


104  Harpers  Novelettes 

the  phrase  oftencst  on  their  lips. 
Frances  came  out  of  Keppel's  sisters 
with  a  dazed  relief  at  having  done  her 
duty  and  being  rid  of  their  noisy  affec 
tion.  Not  that  she  wasn't  beautiful  dur 
ing  their  visit — that  was  a  part  of  her. 
For  Keppel,  after  the  first  vigor  of  the 
visit,  the  home  jokes,  the  eagerness  over 
half-forgotten  family  escapades,  it  was  all 
spoiled.  To  put  it  candidly,  Frances 
spoiled  it  for  him — unconsciously.  He 
was  bewildered  at  his  inability  to  project 
what  his  sisters  were  to  him  into  his 
wife.  It  seemed  at  first  that  with  all  his 
readiness  of  tongue  he  could  make  her 
feel  about  "  the  girls  "  as  he  did — -that 
they  were  nice.  His  failure — he  had  to 
admit  the  failure — left  him  with  all  his 
perception  of  Frances's  fineness  unim 
paired,  but  it  sapped  terribly  his  confi 
dence  in  himself. 

"My  cousins  from  Michigan  are  coin 
ing  to  town  on  Tuesday,"  he  told  Frances 
one  evening,  laughing  apologetically. 

"What  cousins,  Richard?"  she  asked, 
vaguely. 

He  was  surprised  at  the  interrogation. 
"Why,  you  know,  dear!  I've  told  you 
of  them  so  often.  My  Michigan  cousins 
—Edward  and  Grace;  and  they  want 
us  to  dine  with  them  that  night  at 


The  Bond  105 

their    hotel."      He    waited,    in    spite    of 
himself,,  at  a  tension. 

"  Oh — you  have  so  many  cousins,  1 
forget.  Are  they  interesting?  Or  clev 
er?  Or  frightfully  rich?  Or  beautiful?" 
she  jested. 

He  thought  it  out,  "  Xo— o,  no,  I 
suppose  not.  But  they  are  near  to  me." 

"  But  why  need  we — 

"Oh,  you  needn't  go,  dear,  of  course. 
But  I  must.  I  couldn't  bear  to  hurt 
them;"  he  added,  wistfully:  "they'll 
want  so  to  see  you — they've  heard  so 
much  of  you." 

She  was  candidly  amused  in  a  way  he 
apprehended  to  the  core,  and  the  very 
apprehension  hurt  him  more  than  he 
cared  to  admit. 

"  You're  laughing  at  me  for  caring  so 
— about  just  relatives  who  aren't  any 
thing  in  particular." 

"Why  do  you  care?"  asked  his  wife, 
curiously. 

He  did  not  explain,  only  replied,  slowly, 
"  It's  silly  of  me,  I  dare  say." 

"I  don't  understand  you,  Richard. 
You  have  a  beautiful  perception  of 
everything,  but  in  this —  Why  bother 
about  the  mass  of  things — in  this  case, 
relatives?  It's  the  individual  always 
that  counts  with  me." 


106  Harper's  Novelettes 

And  there  she  summed  up  the  whole 
case  for  them  both,  though  she  did  not 
then  guess  it. 

When  it  was  a  question  of  himself, 
Keppel's  wife  was  wonderfully  generous. 
She  saw  not  the  real  issue,  but  only  him. 
So  she  closed  their  discussion  with: 
"  We'll  go,  Richard,  of  course,  if  you 
want  to.  I  want  always,  above  every 
thing,  to  please  you." 

He  sighed,  for  she  had  missed  the 
essence  of  it.  "  To  please  him " — that 
was  just  the  very  thing,  intrinsically, 
that  he  didn't  want.  That  was  the  key 
to  everything.  If  she  could  but  see  in 
his  relatives  what  he  saw — not,  perhaps, 
companionship,  nor  charm,  nor  intellect, 
nor  social  preferment;  he  was  too  keen 
an  analyst,  had  gone  too  far,  had  seen 
too  much,  to  mark  these  qualities  in  his 
kin;  but  to  find  and  to  cherish  the  ~bond, 
— that  was  it. 

Keppel  hammered  it  all  out  after  his 
wife  had  gone  to  her  room,  and  always 
with  perfect  exoneration  for  her.  "  They 
bore  her,  that's  the  truth  of  it,"  he 
sighed.  "  She's  too  fine  for  us.  It 
isn't  that  I  want  to  force  them  down 
her;  nor  hold  them  up  as  paragons. 
Nothing  like  that;  I  know  where  they 
fail — know  it  better,  too,  since  I've 


The  Bond  107 

known  her.  I  ought  to  be  clear  to  her, 
but  I'm  not;  she's  not  had  my  chances 
for  it — for  relatives,"  he  laughed,  rue 
fully.  "  It's  enough  for  her  that  kins 
folk  just  are.  She  can't  get  the  fact 
that,  however  modern  and  advanced  I 
might  grow,  I  can't  shake  them  off  like 
dust  from  my  coat.  They're  mine  own 
people,  confound  it, — mine!  I  must  be 
square  with  them!  Poor  Frances,  I'm 
not  her  sort,  that's  true." 

In  the  end  there  was  little  comfort  in 
all  this  for  Keppel.  There  is  rarely  com 
fort  in  an  abstract  proposition  of  justice. 
The  grievance  stayed  with  him  —  the 
grievance  that  Frances  couldn't  see  what 
his  relatives  meant  to  him.  He  went 
over  it  again  painfully :  "  Great  heavens, 
I  wouldn't  hurt  one  of  them  for  the 
world.  I  couldn't  do  that — they'd  never 
understand.  And  Frances  won't  see  it! 
She's  too  good  for  us — we're  common 
folk,  after  all.  I  was  a  fool,  maybe,  to 
think  I  could  come  up  to  her  completely. 
But  my  attitude  toward  my  relatives,  in 
her  eyes,  must  put  me  below  her,  where  I 
can't  reach  up.  And  some  day  she'll 
know  it  out  for  a  certainty,  and  then — 

The  end  of  the  pondering  left  him 
down,  left  his  sensibilities  in  a  roughened 
state,  gave  him  a  soreness  of  attitude 


io8  Harper's  Novelettes 

toward— he  believed  it  faithfully— him 
self  alone,  toward  his  incapacity,  his  fail 
ure  to  make  out  for  Frances  all  she  had 
expected  to  find  in  marriage  with  him. 

This  mood  of  unworthiness  daily  grew 
on  him,  accentuated  from  time  to  time 
by  the  recurrent  periods  of  very  old 
friends,  or  more  relatives — there  were  al 
ways  more  with  Keppel.  To  Frances 
they  were  confessedly  not  worth  while, 
intrinsically  considered.  She  did  not  see, 
in  their  life,  which  was  undeniably  a 
good  one,  why,  when  her  friends  were  so 
freely  and  desirably  at  her  husband's  dis 
posal,  he  might  not  rest  content;  espe 
cially  as  he  repeatedly  declared,  and  with 
sincerity,  the  people  she  knew  were  the 
people  he  found  actually  most  compatible 
with  his  thought  and  aim. 

The  situation  livened  in  Keppel,  by 
fault  of  its  very  untalkableness,  a  seed  of 
distrust  and  suspicion  of  everything 
Frances  did.  So  much  nowadays  seemed 
to  point  to  dissatisfaction  with  him;  the 
love  itself,  which  she  held  before  him 
like  a  clear  flame,  he  began  to  question 
and  to  value  as  pity. 

"  If  there  is  anything  between  us, 
Richard,"  said  Frances,  at  the  last,  ab 
ruptly,  "  let  us  talk  it  out.  You  can  say 
anything  you  like — you  are,  above  all 


The  Bond  109 

men  I  have  ever  known,  able  to  tell 
things." 

He  could  only  give  her  his  gaze  appeal- 
ingly.  Keppel — and  no  one  knew  it  bet 
ter  than  he — was  not  of  the  kind  that 
f  acilely  "  talks  out "  a  situation  based  on 
a  personal  sense  of  incompetence.  Be 
sides,  the  fact  of  the  ultimate  justifica-, 
tion  of  her  position  put  him,  when  he 
looked  the  matter  full  in  the  eyes — less 
selfishly,  less  morbidly,  than  was  his  wont 
now — tremendously  in  the  wrong,  made 
him  seem  smallish  and  peevish. 

He  evaded  the  opening  clumsily: 

"  Oh,  I'm  just  a  little  down  in  the 
mouth — it's  the  weather,  I  fancy."  The 
evading  of  the  chance  she  gave  him 
was  an  added  hurt,  for  he  loved  frank 
ness  above  all. 

It  came  in  the  end  to  a  very  bad  state 
with  Keppel  and  his  wife.  He  left  her 
blind,  groping  for  reasons  in  the  dark. 
And  this  hurt  her  pride  in  herself,  and, 
too,  in  him.  With  his  mental  defection 
she  had  little  to  consider  save  the  ob 
jective  field,  and  that  was  crowded  with 
her  husband's  relatives.  He  forced  her 
to  face  a  condition  which  had  hitherto 
existed  only  in  Keppel's  fagged  brain — 
the  general  fact  of  a  mistake  for  them 
both  in  their  marriage.  Nothing  had 


no  Harper's  Novelettes 

struck,  as  yet,  at  the  root  of  their  love; 
but  they  were  in  one  of  those  inevitably 
dark  periods  of  weariness,  distrust,  over 
strained  emotion,  which,  if  not  lighted 
with  delicate  understanding,  results  often 
in  desperate  measures  for  relief. 

When  Keppel  had  to  tell  her  of  the 
two-o'clock  Sunday  dinner  his  aunts  in 
Brooklyn  were  planning  largely  to  give 
them — as  a  domestic  hostage  to  their 
matrimonial  bliss, — Frances  openly  re 
belled.  "  I  have — indeed,  we  both  have — 
an  engagement  for  luncheon  that  day," 
she  said,  coldly.  "  Besides — " 

"  But  it  is  only  tentative — that  engage 
ment,"  he  hazarded. 

"  I  choose  to  make  it  decisive.  I  see  no 
reason,  Richard,  why,  for  the  sake  of 
something  that  comes  very  near  being  a 
piece  of  illogical  sentimentality  on  your 
part,  we  should  drag  ourselves  to  a  bar 
barous  two  -  o'clock  meal  with  —  why, 
you've  laughed  a  hundred  times  at  your 
Brooklyn  aunts." 

lie  met  it  doggedly.  "  They've  planned 
it  and  they'll  be— 

"  Hurt,  you're  about  to  say  ?  Very 
well,  if  it  comes  to  the  question  of  hurt 
feelings,  my  impression  is  that  my  own 
should  be  considered." 

"Oh,  Frances,  you  don't  understand." 


The  Bond  in 

"No,  I  do  not," 

"  I  must  go  in  any  case,"  he  finished, 
wretchedly,  impelled  on  the  instant  to  a 
disagreement,  which  afterward  he  bit 
terly  repented. 

"  Oh,  if  you  take  it — and  your  aunts — 
so  seriously!" 

It  was  serious  enough — and  taking  it 
so,  or  leaving  it,  made  no  alleviation. 
Frances,  after  all,  had  the  better  of  it, 
for  she  had  her  own  friends  as  a  diver 
sion,  if  not  a  refuge;  and  they  also  were 
the  sort  that  Keppel  most  desired,  but 
could  not,  in  the  present  mess  of  things, 
avail  himself  of  with  any  dignity. 

Ultimately  Keppel  went  alone  to  the 
dinner  of  his  aunts. 

The  ensuing  weeks  brought  Keppel — 
though  in  his  saner  moments  he  saw  the 
absurdity  of  it — to  a  state  of  despondency 
which  had  for  its  nucleus  the  fact  that  he 
was  hopelessly  misunderstood.  From 
misunderstanding  him  on  one  point,  he 
grew  to  feel  that  Frances  was  missing 
him  on  every  point.  His  morbid  self- 
searchings  left  her  still  on  her  pedestal, 
and,  like  pedestalled  beings,  left  her 
alone.  The  rarefied  atmosphere  of  her 
elevation,  it  must  be  said,  afforded  her 
little  satisfaction.  She  was  almost  at 
the  point  where  her  love  was  ready  to 


ii2  Harper's  Novelettes 

admit  its  last  effort  was  expended,  its 
high  courage  daunted. 

The  outward  show  of  things  between 
them  was  well  enough ;  their  conversation 
was  a  graceful  skipping  from  tussock  to 
tussock  in  the  swamp  of  unsaid  things. 
After  an  evening  of  this  ungrateful  stri 
ding  over  unmentioned  abysses,  Keppel 
brought  up  the  matter  of  the  family 
gathering  at  Thanksgiving  in  his  home — 
a  day's  journey  distant  in  a  weather 
worn  country  village. 

"  We've  always  gathered  at  Thanks 
giving,"  he  said,  hesitatingly.  "  It's  our 
home  custom,  you  know.  I've  never 
missed  more  than  two  or  three  of  those 
festivals.  Mother  would  break  her  heart 
if — "  He  left  the  sentence  unended. 

Frances  had  a  mental  flash  in  which 
she  saw  all  that  Keppel  had  told  her  of 
the  bleak,  barren,  wintry  little  place,  set 
off  in  an  alien  valley  peopled  by  men 
and  women  assuredly  not  her  own  kind, 
distant,  comfortless.  In  her  present  re 
pelled  emotional  condition,  it  all  seemed 
unendurably  intolerable. 

"  Oh,  I  couldn't — "  she  gasped,  quickly. 

Keppel  was  silent,  shrinking  inwardly 
from  the  truth  of  her  words. 

"  Must  we  go — now  ?  It  seems  so — so 
far,  and  surely  they  understand  how  en- 


The  Bond  113 

gaged  we  are  here  ?  How  difficult  it  is  to 
take  such  a  journey,  just  at  the  begin 
ning  of  the  season  in  town  ?  I — 

"Please  don't  think  of  it,  Frances," 
he  said,  coldly.  "  I  understand  how  diffi 
cult  the  journey  would  be  for  you.  I — I 
scarcely  thought  that  you'd  care  for  it. 
I  can  say  that  you  are  ill,  if  you  like 
—ill  enough  not  to  undertake  the  trip. 
You'll  get  on  quite  safely  here  for  the 
two  days  I'll  be  away." 

She  looked  at  him  with  the  calm 
curiosity  of  utter  aloofness.  "  Then 
you'll  go — without  me?" 

Keppel   rose,    avoiding  her   eyes, 
cannot    disappoint    them,    of    course — it 
means  very  much  to  them.     Yes,  I  shall 
go,"  he  said,  as  he  left  her. 

"Very  well,  Richard.    As  you  will." 

She  had,  at  the  moment,  not  the  least 
inclination  toward  tears.  Indeed,  she 
was  conscious  of  a  certain  relief  in  the 
thought  of  prospective  freedom.  Later 
she  had  a  wretched  time  over  the  whole 
unfortunate  affair. 

Tor  Keppel  the  journey  home  had  abso 
lutely  none  of  the  traditional  about  it. 
He  could  not  foresee  with  his  former 
warmth  at  the  heart  the  eager  faces,  the 
generous  glow  of  the  house,  the  bright 
ness,  the  welcomes,  which,  jovial  as  they 


H4  Harper's  Novelettes 

always  were,  had  a  scarcely  concealed 
depth  of  tender  affection,  the  sense  of 
reunion  accentuated  by  a  smoking-hot 
turkey  and  a  burden  of  home  dishes.  In 
fact,  he  shook  himself  out  of  the  dis 
ordered  sleeping-car  early  in  the  gray 
creeping  chill  of  Thanksgiving  morning, 
utterly  at  odds  with  the  whole  situation. 
The  effort  to  greet  his  father's  blankness 
of  face  over  the  sight  of  Keppel  alone, 
with  a  cordial  gayety  of  reassurance,  of 
explanation  of  Frances's  inability  to 
come,  of  her  dreadful  disappointment, 
nearly  set  him  crazy. 

"  Well,  well,  I  am  sorry.  I've  counted 
so  on  seeing  my  new  daughter,"  his 
father  said,  regretfully,  as  Keppel  climb 
ed  into  the  big  red  "cutter"  and  they 
drove  off.  The  younger  man  took  sorry 
note  of  the  robes  and  the  hot  soapstones 
that  filled  the  conveyance;  they  had  been 
provided  for  Frances,  he  knew,  though 
he  did  not  speak  of  the  fact. 

The  "Why,  where  is  Frances?"  that 
Keppel  had  shrunk  from  all  the  way, 
with  keen  sensitiveness,  came  at  last, 
with  even  more  of  blankness,  of  dismay, 
of  incredulity,  than  he  had  anticipated, 
as  his  family  tumultuously  drew  him 
back  among  them  again.  He  put  them  all 
off  gayly — so  gayly  that  he  almost  re- 


The  Bond  115 

aroused  the  suspicions  he  was  trying  to 
allay  in  them. 

"  So  I  came  without  her — just  to  see 
your  Thanksgiving  faces,  eat  your  bless 
ed  food,  tell  my  old  jokes,  and  be  gone. 
No,  really,  she  wasn't  fit  to  take  that 
long  trip." 

"  Well,  if  I  was  as  young  as  Frances — " 
sharply  began  an  aunt  whose  spirit  was 
irreconcilable  with  extreme  delicacy. 

"  Now,  Mary,"  protested  Keppel's  moth 
er  quickly. 

After  the  momentary  forgetfulness  in 
the  greetings,  the  cloud  settled  on  Kep- 
pel  heavily.  On  a  slight  pretext  he  went 
up  to  his  old  room — they  had  kept  it  for 
him  just  as  it  was  the  day  he  went  to 
college  a  matter  of  twelve  years  ago — 
went  just  to  get  away  from  his  sisters  and 
their  good-natured  raillery  about  his  being 
a  "  bachelor  again  "  and  "  deserted." 

The  parting  from  Frances  had  been 
worse  than  he  had  thought  it  might  be, 
and  he  had  given  it  every  dull  shade. 
He  had  still  the  sense  of  her  at  parting — 
straight,  slim,  calm,  unprotesting,  and 
terribly  removed  from  him.  In  his  dis 
tress  over  the  whole  thing,  in  his  feeling 
of  hurt,  Keppel  had — he  saw  it  clearly 
enough  now  —  made  himself  out  in  a 
worse  light  than  he  had  intended.  His 


n6  Harper's  Novelettes 

wretchedness  stopped  his  throat,  laid  on 
his  tongue  a  silence  that  was  a  leaden 
weight.  So  it  came  ultimately  to  some 
muttered  words  of  farewell,  a  snatch  at 
his  bag,  and  brusque  departure. 

KeppeFs  mother  came  in  softly  and 
laid  her  hand  on  his  head;  he  had  flung 
himself  prone  upon  his  bed. 

"  Richie,  what  is  it  ?"  she  asked,  gently. 

"  What  is  what,  mother  ?"  he  parried, 
listlessly. 

"  Isn't  home  good  to  you  ?''  she  went  on. 

"  Home — is  home,  mother  dear,  al 
ways."  He  smiled  at  her  wistfully. 

"You  didn't  used  to  have  the  lines 
about  vour  mouth,  boy,  or  the  tired 
eyes?" 

"I  didn't  used  to  be  thirty-two  years 
old,  madam,"  he  laughed  in  a  gay  at 
tempt. 

"  I'm  sorry  Frances  couldn't  come." 

Keppel  had  helplessly  felt  the  moment 
coming. 

"  Yes,  I  knew  you  would  be." 

They  sat  silent,  the  shrewd  eyes  of  his 
mother  on  him  compassionately. 

"Richie?" 

"Yes?" 

"Well?" 

"  Well  ?" 

"I'm  waiting." 


The  Bond  n7 

lie  put  his  hand  on  hers  with  a  pat  of 
reassurance. 

"You'd  not  understand,"  he  evaded. 

"  I  do  not  know  that  I  want  to — under 
stand,"  she  returned,  with  a  straight 
glance  at  him.  Keppel  looked  at  her, 
wonderingly. 

What  she  said  next  made  him  catch 
his  breath. 

"You  shouldn't  have  left  her,"— that 
'was  all. 

"But  you  don't  understand,"  he  re 
peated,  irritably. 

"You  should  have  stayed  with  her, 
Richie,"  she  went  on  firmly. 

"  But—" 

"  She's  everything-  now,  my  son,  and 
we — your  father,  the  girls,  and  I — we  are 
— are  not  your  first  thought.  Frances 
didn't  marry  us;  she  married  you. 
Richie,  she  loves  you,,  and  that's  all 
that  counts." 

Keppel  was  strangely  humbled,  speech 
less;  he  had  never  seen  his  mother  so. 
It  was  as  if  knowing  none  of  it,  she  yet 
apprehended  all.  The  instant  was  a  lit 
tle  awesome. 

She  continued :  "  Remember,  remember 
that  you  can't  bring  everything  right  in 
six  months.  Why,  Richard,  your  father 
and  I  struggled  for  almost  two  years  be- 


n8  Harper's  Novelettes 

fore  we  found  out  the  truth  of  what  we 
were  destined  to  be  to  each  other." 
Keppel  bent  to  kiss  her. 
"  Be  kind  with  her,  my  boy.     Tell  me 
nothing    about    what    has    happened,    if 
anything  has, — I  don't  want  to  hear  it. 
Only  always  be  gentle  with  her.     She'll 
understand  you  some  day.     It's  just  you 
she  wants  now — not  us." 

She  rose,  tying  the  strings  of  'her 
apron  with  nervous  fingers.  That  she 
let  the  tears  come  into  her  eyes,  and 
taking  both  his  hands  kissed  him,  was  to 
her  son  wonderful.  She  was  not  a  woman 
who  made  a  light  show  of  tenderness. 

"  Oh,  Richie  boy,  mother's  sorry,"  she 
cried,  jealously,  as  if  he  were  her  boy 
again. 

"Mother,    you're    splendid,"    he    said, 
brokenly.    "  If  she  only  knew—" 
"  Hush,  Richard." 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  arm  with  an 
earnest     gesture,       "There's     the     noon 
train,  you  know.    It  '11  take  you  back  to 
New  York  by  nine  o'clock  to-night," 
Pie  understood.     "But  the  others?" 
"I'll  explain.     Slip  out  quietly  when 
you're  ready  and  I'll  have  John  harness 
old  Kit  for  you.     You  can  leave  her  at 
the  station — and  you  know  it's  hard  for 
me  to  let  you  go?" 


The  Bond  "9 

Keppel  nodded.  "I  want  to  go  back, 
mother." 

"Dick!  Dick!"  called  his  sisters,  im 
patiently. 

"Be  still,"  his  mother  cried,  softly, 
coming  out  to  them.  "  Can't  I  have  my 
own  son  to  myself  just  once  a  year?" 

The  train  from  New  York  pulled  in 
just  as  Keppel  drove  up  to  the  little 
wooden  hox  of  a  station.  His  own  train 
was  not  due  for  a  matter  of  five  minutes ; 
so  he  waited  in  the  sleigh,  idly  watching. 

She  was  the  only  one  to  alight  at 
the  dreary  snow-bound  spot — tall,  fur- 
wrapped,  and  shrinking,  she  turned  help 
lessly  around  and  looked  full  into  his  eyes. 

"Frances!" 

"  Dick,  I  had  to  come,"  she  sobbed  into 
his  coat.  "  I  wanted  you  so." 


The  Eyes  of  Affection 


BY    GEORGE    IIIBBAHD 


ISABELLE  HALCOMB  was  aware 
that  she  had  come  perilously  near 
to  marrying  "Dick"  Graham.  That 
she  should  have  done  this  if  John  Hal- 
comb  had  not  masterfully  appeared  she 
did  not  attempt  to  deny  to  herself.  That 
he  had  appeared  when  he  did  she  was 
obliged  to  confess  was  almost  an  ac 
cident.  She  felt  a  little  humiliated  by 
the  fortuitous  —  what  she  sometimes 
feared  was  almost  the  casual — nature  of 
the  event.  She  should  have  liked  to 
consider  the  circumstances  preestab- 
lished,  written  in  the  stars,  a  part  of 
the  inevitable  sequence  of  the  universe. 
That  anything  else  might  have  been, 
seemed  to  her  to  detract  from  what  was. 
Still,  the  truth  was  unquestionable.  She 
would  have  married  "  Dick  "  Graham — 
she  knew  she  was  drifting  toward  it — if 
she  had  not  met  Ilalcomb.  Then  she 
had  turned  without  hesitation  toward 


The  Eyes  of  Affection         121 

him  with  a  finality  of  feeling  which  could 
not  be  mistaken.  However,  after  all 
these  fifteen  happy  years  of  placid  mar 
ried  life,  to  know  that  Graham  was  at 
the  Detmolds',  and  that  she  would  un 
doubtedly  see  him  in  the  course  of  half 
an  hour,  had  made  her  think. 

The  heart  is  an  organ  of  an  "  uncertain 
age."  With  the  oldest  there  are  always 
surprising  stirrings  of  youth  in  it.  Even 
when  one  has  concluded  that  it  is  dead 
it  has  an  astonishing  way  of  displaying 
vitality  and  frequently  coming  to  life 
again.  It  is  an  unruly  member,  and  with 
its  belated  youthfulness  puts  unaccus 
tomed  and  unaccountable  thoughts  into 
the  head.  Not  that  the  thoughts  which 
Isabelle  Halcomb  found  rising  in  her 
mind  were  in  any  degree  reprehensible 
or  blameworthy  or,  in  fact,  unnatural. 
Still,  that  she  discovered  herself,  at  what 
in  her  most  uncompromising  moments 
she  described  as  "middle  age,"  thinking 
of  much  which  might  have  been,  in  a 
measure  disconcerted  her. 

Owing  to  a  high  wind  in  the  night 
the  awnings  had  been  torn  away  from  the 
windows  of  her  dressing-room  at  "  Green- 
lawns."  The  unusual  strength  of  light, 
an  incautious  remark  of  her  maid's,  a 
state  of  mind,  had  brought  her  actually 


122  Harper's  Novelettes 

face  to  face  with  an  unpleasant  reality. 
As  she  gazed  at  herself  in  the  mirror 
she  saw  the  white  in  her  dark  locks  with 
great  distinctness.  Not  at  once,  not  for 
some  years,  but  soon  she  would  be  gray. 
As  yet  her  warm  black  hair  only  showed 
threads  and  traces  of  the  coming  change; 
but  they  were  unmistakable  in  the  pres 
ent  and  in  their  promise.  Presently  she 
would  be  a  gray  old  woman.  Would  life 
be  the  same?  Would  Jack  care  for  her 
as  he  did?  For  a  long  time  she  was 
obliged  to  confess  they  had  gone  on  in  a 
humdrum  fashion.  Was  this  the  end  ? 

To  a  mood  induced  by  such  reflections 
had  come  the  announcement  of  Graham's 
presence  at  the  neighboring  country 
house.  The  Dick  Graham  of  her  youth, 
the  lover  of  other  days.  To  be  sure,  there 
had  been  nothing  but  a  flirtation,  one  of 
those  flash-in-the-pan  failures  of  fate. 
Certainly  she  was  entirely  satisfied  and 
perfectly  happy,  and  yet —  Youth  with 
all  its  never-realized  promises  had  been 
such  restless  delight.  Seeing  him  again 
would  be  a  little  like  going  back  to  it. 
She  felt  that  she  was  measurably  excited 
— unusually  interested. 

That  she  was  longer  than  usual  in 
dressing  she  was  conscious;  that  she  took 
unusual  care  in  preparing  herself  for  the 


The  Eyes  of  Affection         123 

encounter  she  was  aware.  She  was  par 
ticularly  exacting  with  her  maid  as  to 
her  hair.  She  halted  between  two  gowns, 
and  having  put  on  one,  changed  it  finally 
for  another.  Going  into  the  world  had 
become  such  a  matter  of  routine  that  her 
unusual  perturbation  held  an  exceptional 
significance.  She  felt  almost  a  girlish 
anxiety  as  to  her  appearance.  What  did  it 
mean  ?  Finally,  as  she  came  down-stairs, 
she  reached  a  conclusion.  Because  of  the 
past  she  felt  a  pride  in  being  at  her  best. 

The  door  of  the  smoking-room  which 
Halcomb  used  as  an  office  was  open.  She 
saw  him  as  she  stood  at  the  entrance, 
thrown  back  in  a  low  chair,  with  tele 
grams,  letters,  and  newspapers  scattered 
on  the  floor.  Usually  he  had  such  a  litter 
about  him.  In  vagrant  fancy  she  had 
sometimes  thought  of  it  as  chips  of  the 
workshop  of  his  busy  life. 

"  Jack,"  she  said,  softly. 

The  sound  with  which  he  answered  be 
tokened  a  whole  relationship — a  relation 
ship  of  pleasant  confidence,  of  comfort 
able  congeniality,  of  habitual  affection. 
Unsought,  unbidden,  unwished  came  for 
an  instant  in  her  mind  the  little  imp- 
like  query,  Would  "  Dick  "  Graham  have 
responded  in  that  way  if — if —  The 
heart  of  the  girl  never  quite  ceases  to 


124  Harper's  Novelettes 

beat  in  the  woman,  and  the  girl's  heart 
was  asking  the  question  a  little  bit 
terly.  As  she  did  not  speak,  he  looked 
up  suddenly. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"  How  much  time  you  give  to  money- 
making!" 

"Well,"  he  said,  placidly,  "I  have 
always." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  softly,  "  you  have 
always." 

What  was  she  asking,  she  asked  her 
self.  What  did  she  desire,  or  did  she 
even  desire  anything?  What  did  she 
find  lacking?  All  was  so  doubtful 
ly  uncertain  that  she  felt  she  was  in 
deed  groping  in  a  very  tenuous  mist  of 
discontent.  Still,  full  satisfaction  did 
not  stand  out  in  all  its  clear  and  un 
shaken  outlines.  The  most  of  the  facts 
of  her  life  seemed  at  best  only  gray  and 
pale — a  few,  only  faintly  discerned,  al 
most  appeared  distorted  and  awry. 

"  Why  do  you  want  more  money,  Jack?" 
she  asked. 

"  I  don't,"  he  answered. 

"  Then  why—"  she  began. 

"  Because  I've  always  been  in  the  har 
ness,"  he  replied,  "  and  out  of  it  I'd  feel 
as  uncomfortable  as  if — as  if — I'd  lost  a 
suspender-button." 


The  Eyes  of  Affection         125 

The  prosaic — as  she  felt,  almost  coarse, 
thoroughly  marital  —  comparison  made 
her  wince.  When  one  is  reaching1  up 
into  the  empyrean,  to  bump  one's  head 
against  the  ceiling  is  unpleasant  and  dis 
turbing  and  bewildering. 

"  Don't  you  think  I'm  pretty  any  long 
er  ?"  she  asked,  with  what  she  knew  must 
seem  inconsequence — though  to  herself, 
aware  of  the  mental  steps,  the  question 
appeared  perfectly  logical. 

"  Beautiful,"  he  answered,  readily. 

"  But  now — "  she  began. 

"You  are  the  best-looking  woman  go 
ing,"  he  answered,  heartily,  as  he  turned 
another  page  of  a  letter  and  began  on  the 
other  side. 

"  Yet,"  she  commented,  "  you  never  say 
anything  about  it,  even  now  when  I'm 
dressed  up  in  all  my  fineries, — never  say 
anything  about  —  anything,"  she  con 
cluded,  as  she  felt,  lamely. 

"Why,  Lizzie!"  he  replied,  lowering 
the  paper  and  looking  at  her  curiously. 
"When  one  has  had  the  proud  privilege 
of  dressing  beauty  in  Paquin  gowns  for 
a  number  of  years,  one  does  not  write 
poetry  about  it.  However " — and  the 
twinkle  showed  in  his  eyes  which  had 
helped  so  much  in  making  his  fame  as 
an  after-dinner  speaker — "  I  assure  you 


126  Harpers  Novelettes 

that  I  still  look  upon  you  with  the  eyes 
of  affection." 

She  sighed. 

Was  that  what  she  desired — poetry? 
When  she  felt  the  lack  of  something, 
was  this  because  she  was  receiving  affec 
tion?  Was  she  asking  for  the  bread,  or 
rather  the  cake,  the  sugared  confection 
of  romance,  and  getting  the  stone  of 
every-day  regard?  At  her  age  she  con 
fessed  anything  else  was  foolish,  even 
such  speculation  absurd,  and  yet — 

"  Take  care,"  she  said,  moving  toward 
the  door  and  letting  her  hand  rest  for 
a  moment  on  his  shoulder.  "  I  am  going 
to  the  Detmolds',  and  Dick  Graham  is 
going  to  be  there." 

Halcomb  whistled. 

"  My  old  rival,"  he  said,  slowly. 
"  How  jealous  I  was  of  that  fellow !  Yes, 
he  was  and  is  the  man  to  write  sonnets 
to  your  eyebrow.  I  must  take  care." 

He  looked  up  at  her  in  placid  content 
ment,  while  she  glanced  down  at  him 
with  adoring  indulgence. 

"Nonsense!"  she  said,  with  a  slight 
blush.  "  Still,  it  made  me  think  of 
the— past." 

"  So,"  he  laughed,  "  that  is  the  rift  in 
the  lute.  That  is  the  reason  the  sweet 
bells  jangle  a  little  out  of  tune.  That 


The  Eyes  of  Affection         127 

is  the  way  the  wind  is  blowing.  That 
is  the  nigger  in  the  fence." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  smiling. 

"Then,"  he  replied,  dramatically,  "I 
must  say,  madam,  that  I  consider  your 
conduct  most  scandalous  indeed — most 
improper.  You — with  a  devoted  hus 
band—  Fie!  madam;  it  is  most  mon 
strous." 

"Won't  you  go  with  me?"  she  asked, 
pausing  at  the  door  and  throwing  him  a 
kiss  with  the  ends  of  her  fingers. 

"No,"  he  replied.  "I've  got  to  stay 
here  and  see  Higgins  about  this  right 
of  way." 

As  the  victoria  rolled  up  the  drive  to 
the  porte-cochere  she  saw  a  number  of 
carriages  and  automobiles.  When  she 
stood  at  one  of  the  low  windows  of  the 
drawing-room  and  looked  out  upon  the 
terrace  she  discovered  that  a  dozen  or 
more  of  people  were  gathered  about  the 
tea-table.  It  stood  under  the  spreading 
awning,  with  Mrs.  Detmold  behind  it. 
Isabelle  Halcomb  paused  a  moment  be 
fore  advancing.  With  an  eager  glance 
she  examined  the  scene  and  the  company. 
Yes,  she  could  not  be  mistaken.  She 
recognized  him  in  a  moment.  Yet  in  the 
next  she  experienced  a  feeling  of  sur 
prise  that  she  had  known  him.  Not,  in- 


128  Harper's  Novelettes 

deed,  that  he  had  so  very  much  changed. 
Still,  the  stout,  sturdy,  ruddy  man  whom 
she  beheld  was  very  different  from  the 
image  of  the  man  of  whom  she  had 
been  thinking. 

For  the  first  time  a  momentary  doubt 
assailed  her.  She  had  gone  forward  to 
the  meeting  with  an  unthinking  certainty 
— almost  as  if  she  were  returning  into 
her  own  youth.  At  the  very  threshold 
the  shock  of  disillusionment  seemed  to 
have  struck  her. 

She  advanced  more  sedately  but  with 
even  less  inward  composure  toward  the 
place  where  her  hostess  was  seated.  "With 
a  concealed  confusion  which  she  had  not 
felt  since  her  earliest  year  in  society 
she  swept  forward.  The  group  parted, 
and  she  stood  beside  the  tea-table. 

"  So  good  of  you  to  come,"  murmured 
the  lady  behind  the  teacups.  "  I  wanted 
a  few  of  you  to  meet  Mr.  Graham  at 
once — but  I  did  not  remember — you  know 
him  already." 

The  moment  for  which  she  had  been 
preparing  herself  was  not  long  delayed. 

"I  forgot,"  Mrs.  Detmold  laughed. 
"  Only  the  assurance  that  you  were  com 
ing  this  afternoon,  I  believe,  has  kept 
him  from  taking  horse  instantly  and 
riding  to  see  you." 


The  Eyes  of  Affection         129 

As  Mrs.  Detmold  spoke,  Graham  ad 
vanced.  She  discerned  that  he  was  look 
ing  at  her  curiously.  What  did  he  see? 
Was  the  realization  for  him.  as  different 
from  the  memory  as  it  had  been  in  her 
case?  As  she  stood  under  his  examining 
gaze  she  was  conscious  of  the  years.  Un 
certainly,  apprehensively,  almost  affright- 
edly,  she  stood  trying  to  read  what  she 
felt  would  be  a  verdict  in  his  eyes.  The 
crisis  endured  for  a  moment — the  retro 
spective  moment,  though,  of  the  drowning 
man  catching  at  a  straw — in  which  she 
not  only  with  vivid  revision  saw  the  past, 
but  in  quick  anticipation  caught  glimpses 
of  the  future.  She  seemed  only  to  be 
come  conscious  of  time  and  place  when 
she  heard  his  voice. 

"  Indeed,  it's  true,"  he  asserted,  earnest 
ly.  "  I  was  for  hurrying  off  at  once." 

"I  am  glad,"  she  said,  with  a  voice 
she  was  reassured  to  feel  was  so  serene. 
"I  think,  however,  that  it  would  only 
have  been  fitting  in  the  case  of  such 
an  old  friend." 

They  stood  examining  each  other  with 
appraising  glances.  The  challenging  was 
only  kindly,  the  scrutiny  most  gentle. 
Still,  both  were  there  in  the  duelling 
looks.  Instinctively  they  moved  a  step 
or  two  away  from  the  others,  until  what 


130  Harper's  Novelettes 

they  said  could  not  be  heard  in  the  con 
fusion  of  resumed  conversation. 

"  As  it  is,"  she  said,  lightly,  "  I  have 
come  to  see  you.  One  may  do  much  at 
my  age — " 

"  It  is  a  long  time — '  he  admitted, 
thoughtfully. 

"  And  you  have  done  many  surpri 
sing  things,"  she  continued,  feeling  for 
the  moment  safer  in  the  level  fields 
of  generalities. 

That  he  had  honestly  cared  for  her  she 
had  never  doubted  for  a  moment.  Indeed, 
that  she  had  been  obliged  to  hurt  him 
had  caused  very  real  grief  for  her.  The 
first  of  his  wanderings  dated  from  that 
time.  She  had  wondered  if  other  of  his 
expeditions  into  the  remote  parts  of  the 
earth  had  been  not  so  much  for  dis 
covery  as  to  lose— to  forget.  The  meet 
ing  must  assuredly  mean  as  much  to  him 
as  to  her — more  even.  So  many  years 
had  passed  though,  that  she  felt  that  the 
ragged,  cutting  edges  had  been  worn  off, 
and  that  they  could  talk  more  easily 
and  painlessly. 

"An  explorer,"  he  said,  "is  always 
something  of  a  freak.  I  am  not  sure 
that  I  do  not  feel  that  my  proper  place 
would  be  in  the  tent  of  a  side-show  with 
the  wild  man  of  Borneo — " 


The  Eyes  of  Affection         131 

"  You  are  a  personage,"  she  said,  "  who 
adds  to  empires,  and  is  welcomed  by  em 
perors.  I  have  read  all  about  you — 

He  nodded  his  head,  but  did  not  speak. 

"  It  must  be  very  interesting,"  she  said, 
almost  timidly. 

"  There  is  not  such  an  amount  of  add 
ing  to  empires  and  being  welcomed  by 
emperors  as  to  become  monotonous.  And 
you?"  he  added,  abruptly. 

"About  me  there  is  never  anything 
new,"  she  answered,  deliberately. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  something  ?"  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

"  The  newest  thing  which  has  happened 
to  me — for  one  may  become  swamped  in 
variety — has  been  seeing  you  again." 

"New  because  it  is  so  old?"  she  said, 
confusedly. 

«  Yes — and  no,"  he  replied.  "  Of  course 
the  time  is  long — and  much  has  changed." 

"  Ourselves  for  one  thing,"  she  said, 
gently. 

"Yes,  ourselves  for  one  thing,"  he  ac 
ceded.  "Confess, — was  there  not  some 
thing  of  a  shock  for  you  in  looking  at 
me  again?" 

"  That  is  as  much  as  saying  you  were 
shocked  yourself,"  she  evaded. 

He  remained  silent. 

"  You  do  not  answer." 


132  Harper's  Novelettes 

"You  said  that  age  may  forget  for 
mality.  I  will  make  a  confession," — he 
laughed  again  a  little  bitterly:  "I  be 
lieve  I  must  have  gone  on  thinking  of 
you  as  you  were — 

"You  did  not  know  me,"  she  ac 
cused,  quickly. 

"I  did,"  he  defended,  with  conviction, 
"at  once — only  the  picture  in  my  mind 
was  of  the  girl — " 

"And  to  discover  an  old  woman — " 
she  hurried  on,  with  an  impatient  lit 
tle  gesture. 

"  The  child  is  father  of  the  man.  The 
girl  is  mother  of  the  woman.  0  filia 
pulchra  matre  pulchrior" 

"Oh,  do  not  try  to  be  apologetic  or 
flattering,"  she  said.  "  That  is  unneces 
sary,  as  we  agreed." 

"  The  change  is  but  very  slight,"  he 
argued.  "  As  I  look  again,  I  see  it.  But 
the  remembrance  I  had  was  so  clear 
and  distinct — 

"I  am  a  disappointment,"  she  de 
clared. 

"One  star  differeth  from  another  star 
in  glory." 

"I  suppose  I  too  thought  of  myself 
as  I  was,"  she  mused.  "  In  what  way 
am  I  the  most  changed  ?" 

"  Why  discuss  it  ?"  he  asked,  earnestly. 


The  Eyes  of  Affection         133 

"I  am  interested,"  she  urged.  "One 
does  not  have  every  day  such  a  standard 
of  comparison  as  a  returned  friend." 

He  looked  at  her  doubtfully. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "we  can  be  friends 
now.  I  never  thought  that  could  be. 
How  time  takes  the  bitterness  out  of 
everything!  Why,  it's  as  sweetening  as 
air  or  sunlight — and  yet  they  say  that 
nature  is  not  beneficent.  Yes,  I  can  talk 
like  an  old  friend  now." 

"  Then  how  have  I  changed  the  most  \n 
she  insisted. 

"It  is  the  part  of  an  old  friend  to 
tell  unpleasant  truths."  He  smiled.  "  I 
am  only  fulfilling  my  character.  The 
gray  hair — " 

Involuntarily  she  put  her  hands  to 
her  head. 

"  I  think  that  I  was  startled  by  that," 
he  said.  "The  sight  was  so  wholly  un 
expected — so  absolutely  out  of  accord 
with  my  memories — my  picture — 

"You  noticed  it?"  she  demanded. 

"At  once,"  he  said.  "If  there  was 
any  shock,  that  was  it." 

"Oh!"  she  cried. 

"You  are  displeased — I  have  offend 
ed  you—" 

"No.  No,"  she  replied,  quickly.  "Only 
I  have  been  foolish.  I  should  have 


134  Harper's  Novelettes 

thought— I  should  have  realized  that  aft 
er  all  these  years  you  would  notice  the 
difference  immediately.  It  is  a  little 
like  seeing  a  ghost  of  one's  self — and 
ghosts  are  so  frightful." 

Halcomb  did  not  look  up  when  his 
wife  came  into  the  room.  Neither  did 
he  get  up.  She  knew  that  if  she  had 
been  another  woman  he  would  have  been 
ceremoniously  on  his  feet  in  an  instant. 
She  had  not  made  a  grievance  of  such 
conjugal  immobility.  Still,  she  had  no 
ticed  it.  Unfailingly  she  had  considered 
it  a  part  of  the  general  system  of  matri 
monial  laisser-faire,  which  she  deplored. 
On  this  occasion,  as  she  came  slowly 
through  the  door,  the  fact  that  he  did  not 
stir  remained  unmarked  by  her. 

She  advanced  with  downcast  eyes  and 
sank  silently  into  a  chair. 

"  You're  back  early,"  ho  observed,  still 
writing  on. 

"Yes,"  she  answered. 

"Many  people  there?" 

"  No,"  she  replied,  dully. 

"Pleasant?" 

"  Yes." 

At  last,  conscious  of  the  tone  and  man 
ner,  he  glanced  about. 

"Ah,"   he   said,   "I   didn't   remember. 


The  Eyes  of  Affection         135 

There  Is  more  in  this  than  meets  the 
eyes.  On  the  whole,  your  expedition 
into  the  past  seems  to  leave  you  thought 
ful.  This  experience  with  auld  lang 
syne  appears  to  have  given  you  food  for 
reflection!.  Did  not  the  lighli  of  other  days 
have  the  radiance  you  expected  of  it?" 

"Don't  make  fun  of  me,  please,"  she 
said,  hopelessly ;  "  I  can't  bear  it." 

"He  was  there?" 

"He  was,"  she  replied,  despondently. 
"  Oh,  life  is  so  bewildering  and  un 
satisfactory  !" 

"  Were  you  disappointed  in  him  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Something  has  gone  wrong,"  he  said, 
rising  and  drawing  nearer  her.  "Our 
cosmical  doll  is  stuffed  with  sawdust. 
Our  personal  apple-cart  is  upset.  Our 
individual  grapes  are  sour." 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  impulsively. 
"  The  worst  of  it  was  that  he  was  dis 
appointed  in  me." 

"Impossible!"  he  declared.  "How  do 
you  know  ?" 

"  He  told  me." 

"  The—"  he  began. 

"No,  no,"  she  interrupted.  "He  was 
very  nice  about  it,  and  said  it  very 
nicely.  Indeed,  I  don't  know  that  I  am 
quite  fair  in  saying  that  he  was  dis- 


136  Harper's  Novelettes 

appointed.  Oh,  don't  you  understand,  it 
was  so  different — " 

He  continued  to  gaze  at  her  with 
amused  curiosity. 

"  I  don't  believe  that  I  know  what  to 
think.  Oh,  I  wish  I  could  wear  a  nun's 
head-dress." 

"  Why  ?"  he  demanded,  in  amazement. 

"  To  cover  up — the  gray  hair,"  she 
exclaimed. 

"Gray  hair!"  he  said.  "What  gray 
hair?" 

"  Mine." 

"  But  yours  is  not  gray." 

She  sat  up,  looking  at  him  wondering- 
ly.  In  an  instant  she  was  on  her  feet. 
She  sped  to  the  window  and  stood  in 
the  strong  light  of  the  late  afternoon 
sun.  With  a  quick  movement  she  tore 
the  hat  from  her  head.  With  swift 
gestures  she  had  undone  her  hair. 

"  Come  here,"  she  commanded.     "  See  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  standing  before 
her  and  looking  as  he  saw  she  desired 
he  should  look. 

"Well?" 

"  Yes,"  he  responded,  slowly,  "  there  is 
a  touch  here  and  there  of  whiteness.  But 
I  never  noticed  it." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  never 
saw  it  before?" 


The  Eyes  of  Affection         137 

"Never,"  he  announced,  with,  a  force 
•which  was  unmistakable. 

"  Keally  ?"  she  demanded,  joyfully. 

"  Keally,"  he  replied.    "  On  my  word !" 

In  a  moment  her  arms  were  clasped 
about  his  neck. 

"Jack!  Jack!"  she  cried.  "It's  so 
foolish  at  my  age.  I  can't  help  it.  I'm 
so  delighted — so  happy.  All  this  time 
when  I  did  not  think  you  were  noticing 
anything  —  anyway  you  were  not  no 
ticing  that  I  was  changed— 

"  You  haven't,"  he  declared,  stoutly. 

"Truly?"  she  inquired.  "Do  I  seem 
so  much  the  same  to  you  as  that?" 

"In  my  eyes,"  he  said,  "you  have 
not  changed  a  particle  since  the  day  we 
were  married.  You  see,  we  are  so  ac 
customed  to  one  another." 

"Yes  —  yes,"  she  exclaimed,  eagerly. 
"It's  that.  It  does  not  sound  romantic, 
but  it  is." 

"You  are  just  every  bit  as  beautiful 
as  you  ever  were,"  he  assured  her. 

"  The  eyes  of  affection,"  she  murmured, 
as  she  kissed  him.  "And,  Jack — I'm 
more  than  satisfied." 


"The  Marriage  Question" 

BY  GRACE   ELLERY   CHANNINO 

THE  noonday  quiet  was  only  inter 
rupted  by  the  click  of  the  type 
writer  at  one  desk  and  the  occa 
sional  restless  movement  of  legal  papers 
at  the  other.  In  the  outer  office  nearly 
every  one  had  gone  to  lunch.  It  was  in 
deed  past  the  hour  when  Satterlee  him 
self  usually  went,  yet  he  lingered.  Per 
haps  the  breath  of  river  air,  lacking 
in  the  streets  below  but  gratefully  felt 
at  this  altitude,  was  too  pleasant  to 
leave.  Outside,  the  mercury  stood  in 
the  nineties,  but  up  here  it  registered 
a  bare  eighty-two;  if  not  cool,  it  was  at 
least  tolerable. 

The  girl  at  the  typewriter  put  up  one 
hand  and  pushed  the  damp  hair  off  her 
forehead  with  a  languid  gesture  curious 
ly  in  contrast  to  the  almost  feverish 
though  ordered  activity  with  which  her 
fingers  the  next  moment  renewed  their 
dance  over  the  keyboard. 


"The  Marriage  Question"     139 

Satterlee,  behind  the  screen  of  his 
desk-top,  made  a  mental  note  of  this, 
adding  it  to  the  entries  of  several  months 
(its  power  of  extension  gives  the  mental 
note -book  its  chief  danger),  and  he 
frowned  above  the  papers  in  re  Pettis. 

Suppose — just  for  once  and  for  in 
stance — one  did  ask  her  to  cure  the  day's 
fault  of  heat  with  the  cool  pleasantness 
of  a  roof-garden  at  night,  wherein  would 
be  the  harm?  Would  there,  in  fact,  be 
any?  And — a  question  nearly  as  inter 
esting — suppose  one  did  ask  her,  would 
she  go?  It  was  a  nice  problem  in  the 
adjustment  of  employer  and  employed. 

It  grew  hotter  every  minute.  It  was 
going  to  be  intolerably  hot  riding  the 

rail  a  whole  hour  to  S merely  for 

the  satisfaction  of  riding  back  again 
with  the  other  commuters  in  the  morning. 
Satterlee  detested  S anyway;  more 
over,  he  suddenly  remembered  a  great 
number  of  useful  things  he  could  do  in 
town — such  as  looking  up  precedents  in 
re  Pettis.  It  was  only  the  matter  of 
wiring  Isabel.  Instinctively  he  drew  to 
wards  him  one  of  the  pile  of  yellow 
blanks  and  pencilled  the  message: 

"Detained  on  business.  Will  be  down 
to-morrow." 


140  Harper's  Novelettes 

While  he  did  so  he  had  already  a  vision 
of  its  reception  some  hour  later.  One 
of  the  servants  of  the  luxurious  cottage 
for  which  he  enjoyed  the  privilege  of 
paying  would  carry  the  envelope  sedately 
on  a  silver  salver  to  Isabel;  Satterlee 
could  see  the  very  gesture  with  which 
she,  cool  and  elegant  in  some  of  those 
intricate  creations  of  lawn  and  lace  for 
which  also  he  had  the  privilege  of  paying, 
and  which  so  admirably  became  her, 
would  stretch  out  her  smooth,  slim  fingers 
to  take  it.  That  vague  irritation  which 
he  so  often  felt  in  his  wife's  presence 
stirred  him  now  at  the  image.  He  moved 
so  brusquely  that  the  girl  opposite  looked 
up,  surprised,  and  their  eyes  met. 

It  was  a  meeting  without  occult  sig 
nificance  beyond  that  contained  in  the 
bare  fact  of  meeting  without  embarrass 
ment  or  the  need  of  speech, — the  implica 
tion  of  a  certain  fine  adjustment.  The 
girl  went  on  again  with  her  typing,  but 
Satterlee  looked  down  at  his  desk  strange 
ly  troubled. 

Yes,  if  one  asked  her,— he  thought  she 
would  go.  A  kind  of  rage  of  compassion 
seized  him  for  that  indomitable  and  en 
during  frailness  which  had  faced  him 
so  equally,  without  fainting  or  murmur 
through  the  winter's  rigor  and  the  sum- 


44  The  Marriage  Question  "      141 

mer's  strain.  He  made  a  few  aimless 
markings  with  his  pencil,  a  sharp  breath 
that  might  have  been  a  sigh  escaped  him, 
and  he  tore  the  yellow  paper  into  two 
long  strips  and  pushed  back  his  chair. 

"I  shall  be  back  within  the  hour,"  he 
said,  brusquely,  reaching  for  his  panama. 

The  girl  nodded,  without  stopping  that 
incessant  dance  of  fingers,  and  Satterlee 
paused  as  he  passed  her  table,  ostensibly 
to  glance  at  the  copy.  She  was  too  pale 
by  half!  Again  that  rage  of  com 
passion  swayed  him  subtly.  Why  should 
some  women  rest  eternally  and  a  girl 
like  this  never  know  an  hour's  recrea 
tion?  And  where  could  a  girl  like 
that  go  alone  in  New  York  for  recrea 
tion?  Satterlee  himself  was  tired;  ex 
treme  heat  is  a  subtle  sapper  of  the 
moral  energies;  the  long  torrid  months, 
with  the  bidaily  railroad  trips,  had  re 
laxed  some  fibre  in  him;  he  felt  used 
up.  It  would  be  immeasurably  restful 
to  take  a  woman  like  that  to  a  quiet  lit 
tle  supper  somewhere  and  see  her  enjoy 
it; — a  woman  who  shared  his  preoccupa 
tions  of  mind  and  fatigues  of  body  and 
who  wouldn't  expect  him  to  entertain  her 
with  golf  or  scandal.  He  mentally  defied 
his  whole  social  world — Isabel's  whole 
social  world — to  show  cause  why  he 


142  Harper's  Novelettes 

shouldn't  or  indicate  the  smallest  earthly 
harm  therein.  They  were  necessarily 
comrades  to  an  extent  already,  in  the 
enforced  intimacy  which  was  the  sub 
stance  of  their  waking  hours;  exiles  of 
labor,  isolated  from  that  world  in  which 
Isabel  and  her  associates  took  their  pleas 
ure  so  lavishly,  why  should  their  moment 
of  innocent  relaxation  be  disallowed  ?  Be 
cause  she  was  not  of  his  social  set? — Isa 
bel  and  she  had  been  classmates;  nothing 
but  the  accident  of  money — his  money,  as 
he  could  not  help  recalling  at  this  moment 
— ordained  the  one's  life  of  leisure  and 
ordered  the  other's  life  of  work.  And 
yet  he  must  not  ask  her;  this  he  kept 
reiterating  to  himself  through  his  grow 
ing  consciousness  that  he  should  ask  her, 
that  he  was  even  now  on  the  very  point — 

There  came  a  knock  at  the  door — a 
well-bred  knock,  but  which  went  through 
Satterlee's  nerves  like  a  bang.  He  jump 
ed,  and  facing  suddenly  about,  faced 
his  wife. 

"You  didn't  expect  me,"  said  Isabel, 
smiling. 

Her  husband  stared  at  the  sleek,  rosy, 
healthy  creature,  redolent  of  sea  and  air 
and  superior  to  temperature.  To  all  ap 
pearances  she  might  just  have  come  off 
of  ice  and  out  of  a  glass  case.  So  flaw- 


"The  Marriage  Question"     143 

less  a  vision  might,  it  would  seem,  have 
stirred  a  pulse  of  masculine  pride  in 
ownership,  but  the  effect  was  the  oppo 
site.  Her  very  remoteness  from  the  com 
mon  influences  of  heat  and  dust  and 
fatigue,  the  very  perfection  of  her  toi 
lette,  the  accurate  angle  of  her  becoming 
hat,  and  the  immaculate  crispness  of  her 
white  duck  costume  were  an  offence  to 
him  at  that  moment. 

"  I  certainly  did  not,"  he  replied,  with 
unconscious  emphasis.  "  What  in  the 
world  brought  you  to  town  on  the  hottest 
day  of  the  season?" 

"  Oh,  I  had  business,"  said  Isabel, 
lightly.  She  moved,  with  the  artificially 
natural  carriage  of  the  woman  of  society, 
across  the  room,  and  sitting  down  at  her 
husband's  desk,  laid  thereon  a  frivo 
lous  pocketbook  and  preternaturally  slim 
umbrella,  and  began  slowly  to  remove 
her  gloves. 

"  You  were  just  going  to  lunch,  weren't 
you  ?  Don't  let  me  keep  you ;  I  will  wait 
here  till  you  return." 

"  Won't  you  lunch  with  me  ?"  her  hus 
band  asked,  with  an  effort  of  courtesy. 

"  No,  thanks ;  I  have  lunched  already. 
I  sha'n't  disturb  Miss  Clarke,"  — she 
nodded  pleasantly  to  the  girl. 

"  She  needs  to  be  disturbed,"  respond- 


144  Harper's  Novelettes 

ed  Sattorlee,  with  sudden  sharpness. 
"  She  has  been  at  work  since  eight 
o'clock."  As  he  spoke  he  moved  to  the 
window  and  solicitously  lowered  a  shade 
to  intercept  a  ray  which  fell  across  the 
girl's  hair.  It  was  done  with  that  mas 
culine  unconsciousness  which  must  be  a 
remnant  of  man's  lost  innocence.  The 
girl,  flushing  slightly,  bent  lower  over 
the  typewriter;  Mrs.  Satterlee,  leaning 
her  cheek  on  one  hand  and  nonchalantly 
tapping  the  desk  with  the  fingers  of  the 
other,  gazed  discreetly  down  at  it.  Sat 
terlee,  vaguely  helpless  between  the  two, 
hesitated  a  moment  and  then  put  on  his 
hat  once  more. 

"You  won't  come,  then?" 

"  No,  thank  you." 

"Very  well;  I  sha'n't  be  long." 

The  door  closed  somewhat  forcibly. 
Simultaneously,  Isabel  Satterlee  lifted 
her  eyes  and  contemplated  the  figure  of 
the  girl  before  her.  Item  by  item  she  in 
ventoried  her,  with  a  characteristic  and 
liberal  justice.  The  bent  head,  the  tum 
bled  masses  of  soft  hair,  the  face — its 
subdued  suggestions  of  beauty  dimmed 
by  the  pallor  of  heat  and  too  unremitting 
confinement — she  noted  them  all.  That 
the  head  contained  a  good  brain  she 
knew;  they  had  been  college  classmates. 


"The  Marriage  Question''      145 

Indeed, — she  recalled  the  circumstance 
with  faint  cynicism, — it  was  on  her  own 
recommendation  that  Richard  had  given 
Miss  Clarke  the  post.  Trimly  exquisite 
herself,  in  her  appraisement  she  did  not 
make  the  mistake  of  discounting1  any 
thing  for  the  other's  tumbled  cuffs,  dis 
ordered  hair,  and  cheap  shirt-waist,  which 
had  lost  its  first  crispness.  She  con 
ceived  these  things  might  have  their  ap 
peal  for  a  man  by  nature  chivalrous. 
Mentally  she  was  reviewing,  as  best  she 
could,  the  life  of  her  husband  in  this  re 
stricted  space;  here  he  really  and  effect 
ively  lived  in  the  intervals  of  those 
transient  moments  of  existence  spent 
with  his  family.  And  here — it  came  to 
Mrs.  Satterlee  with  a  new  vividness  even 
after  months  of  contemplation  of  the  fact, 
— here  Eleanour  Clarke  really  lived  also. 
This  with  them  both  expressed  the  major 
part  of  their  existence  not  merely  in 
measure  of  time,  but  in  measure  of 
weight.  Here  was  the  chief  occupation 
and  preoccupation  of  each,  necessarily; 
the  active  reality  of  labor  and  interests 
about  which  the  remainder  of  their  lives 
was  more  or  less  loosely  builded.  Isabel 
looked  down  at  the  desk  with  its  crowded 
pigeonholes  and  files  of  bulky  papers, 
and  up  at  the  formidable  legion  of  calf- 


146  Harper's  Novelettes 

bound  volumes  on  the  shelves  all  about; 
these  represented  the  internal  life  and 
world  of  the  man  for  whom  she  poured 
coffee  every  morning, — and  to  whom  she 
had  incidentally  borne  two  children, — and 
she  found  herself  wondering  what  kind  of 
world  it  was.  Probably  Eleanour  Clarke 
knew.  Isabel's  glance,  traversing  the  desk 
once  more,  fell  upon  two  yellow  strips  in 
the  immediate  foreground.  Mechanically 
she  absorbed  their  pencilled  contents.  In 
an  instant  the  message  had  delivered  it 
self,  and  for  the  first  time  Mrs.  Satter- 
lee's  dark  cheek  flushed. 

A  slight  movement  recalled  her.  Miss 
Clarke  had  risen,  put  aside  her  papers, 
and  producing  with  a  murmured  word  of 
apology  a  little  package  of  bread-and- 
butter  sandwiches,  sat  down  by  the  win 
dow  and  began  to  eat.  Mrs.  Satterlee 
watched  her  with  fascinated  interest;  not 
a  movement  of  the  other  escaped  her, 
and  not  one  was  ungraceful  or  displeas 
ing.  The  girl  had  the  dignity  of  her 
justified  position;  even  the  pallor  and 
dimmed  array,  eloquent  of  her  working- 
value,  became  her. 

"Do  you  always  lunch  here?"  asked 
Isabel. 

"In  this  weather.  It  saves  time,  and 
the  going  into  the  sun." 


44  The  Marriage  Question  "     14? 

Isabel's  fingers  drummed  lightly  on 
the  desk. 

"  How  is  your  mother  ?" 

"  Thank  you ; — she  always  suffers  from 
the  heat,"  said  the  girl,  with  a  kind  of 
weary  acceptance. 

Mrs.  Satterlee  leaned  lightly  forward 
on  the  desk.  Few  women  had  a  more 
charming  manner ;  it  wore  even  more  than 
its  habitual  graceful  detachment  now. 

"  Will  you  take  her  down  to  my  cottage 
for  a  month?"  she  said. 

Eleanour  Clarke  turned  two  blankly 
astonished  eyes  upon  her;  evidently  she 
doubted  her  own  ears. 

"  Take  mother  to  your  cottage !"  she  re 
peated, — then  the  color  mounted  slowly  to 
her  pale  cheeks.  "You  are  very  kind," 
she  said;  "but  it  is  quite  impossible;  I 
could  not  leave  my  work." 

"  There  would  have  to  be  a  substitute, 
of  course,"  said  Isabel.  She  also  flushed 
a  little,  hesitated,  and  then  added,  with 
great  frankness :  "  That  is  exactly  what 
I  came  to  town  about  to-day;  I  will  be 
your  substitute,  if  you  will  let  me." 

"  You  —  Mrs.  Satterlee !"  exclaimed 
Eleanour  Clarke.  She  stared  at  the  ele 
gant  figure  before  her,  and  then  all  in  a 
moment,  without  knowing  why,  she  drew 
herself  up  to  an  unconscious  defensive. 


148  Harper's  Novelettes 

"  Oh,  I  should  bo  a  very  bad  one,  of 
course,"  said  Isabel,  lightly,  "but  I  have 
been  studying  stenography  for  some 
months,  and  I  really  typewrite  pretty  well. 
Then  this  is  the  dull  season,  isn't  it? — a 
good  time  for  an  apprentice." 

Eleanour  Clarke  rose  to  her  feet. 

"  You  mean  to  take  my  place!" 

The  absoluteness  of  the  attack  broke 
through  every  conventional  shade  and 
brought  the  other  woman  also  to  her  feet, 
as  if  in  response  to  a  summons. 

"  I  mean  to  try,"  she  answered,  simply. 
"  No,  no,  of  course  not ! — that  isn't  what 
I  meant!" 

They  looked  at  each  other,  equally 
aghast.  In  the  girl's  face  a  kind  of  wa 
king  fright  was  mingled  with  resentment 
and  a  half-blind  questioning.  Isabel 
walked  to  the  window  and  stood  there 
with  her  back  turned,  her  long,  useless 
hands  clasped  lightly  behind  her, — in 
ostentatious  contradiction  of  her  tense 
lips  and  contracted  brows. 

"  I  express  myself  very  badly,"  she  said, 
speaking  quietly.  "  What  I  meant  is — that 
I  am  desperately  tired  of  doing  nothing, 
and  you — you  have  always  been  doing  too 
much.  It  will  do  us  both  good  to  take 
each  other's  place  for  a  while.  When 
did  you  last  have  a  vacation?" 


44  The  Marriage  Question  "     149 

Eleanour  Clarke  smiled  a  trifle  bitterly. 

"  The  year  before  we  botli  entered 
college." 

"  Exactly !  But  I  can't  leave  the  chil 
dren  with  only  nurses  and  servants;  I 
must  have  some  one  I  can  trust, — and 
there  is  no  one  I  could  trust  so  completely 
as  you." 

Eleanour  said  nothing. 

"  And  of  course  " — Mrs.  Satterlee  col 
ored  a  little — "  it  is  understood  that  it 
is  a  business  proposition, — it  would  come 
to  the  same  thing;  I  am  not  asking  you 
to  afford  a  vacation." 

"  No,"  said  Eleanour,  quietly ;  "  I  have 
my  mother  to  support."  She  added,  after 
a  moment,  coldly,  "  This  means,  of  course, 
that  I  must  look  for  another  position." 

Mrs.  Satterlee  had  gone  back  to  the 
desk  and  was  mechanically  shifting  the 
two  yellow  strips  of  paper  as  if  they 
had  been  pieces  of  a  puzzle.  She  was 
exceedingly  pale.  Now  she  looked 
up  quickly. 

"  It  means,  necessarily,  nothing  of  the 
kind.  Please  try  to  understand.  It  is — 
an  experiment.  I  may  not  do  at  all.  In 
any  case, — in  any  ca.se  nothing  would 
induce  me  to  take  your  place  permanently 
unless  you  preferred  another.  Please  " — 
she  looked  directly  at  the  girl — "  con- 


150  Harper's  Novelettes 

sider  it  a  plan  for  the  moment  only,  and 
let  me  know  what  you  decide."  She 
eat  down  suddenly  in  her  husband's 
chair  with  a  movement  of  involuntary 
exhaustion — singular  in  such  a  woman, 
if  Eleanour  Clarke  had  noted.  But  she 
was  not  noting, — she  was  looking  instead 
at  the  opposite  wall  intently,  and  her 
voice,  when  she  spoke  after  what  seemed 
a  long  time,  sounded  from  a  long  way 
off,  oddly  constrained. 

"  Very  well,  I  will  go." 

Mrs.  Satterlee  drew  a  swift  breath.  As 
if  she  had  recovered  all  her  composure, 
the  girl  moved  to  her  table  and  began 
quietly  to  arrange  her  papers  for  work. 

"When  should  you  like  me  to  go 
down?"  she  asked,  in  a  matter-of-fact 
voice.  "I  shouldn't  wish  to — put  Mr. 
Satterlee  to  any  inconvenience." 

"  N — of  course  not,"  said  Isabel,  faint 
ly.  She  leaned  her  head  on  one  hand 
and  stared  again  at  the  yellow  papers. 

"  There    is    this    brief,    and   the   other 
papers  in  this  case  which  must  be  finished 
to-day- 
Isabel  sat  upright  with  sudden  energy. 

"  Could  I  finish  them  ?  I  have  until 
5.45, — and  might  as  well  do  that  as  be 
idle.  Could  you — would  it  be  possible  to 
talk  it  over  with  your  mother  and  arrange 


''The  Marriage  Question "      151 

to  come  down  to-morrow?  That  would 
give  us  Sunday  to  get  things  running 
$moothly, — and  Mr.  Satterlee  will  be  on 
hand  to  make  the  journey  comfortable 
for  your  mother.  Or  is  that  too  little 
time — would  you  rather  wait?" 

"  No,"  said  Eleanour  Clarke,  "  that  will 
be  time  enough."  She  rose,  gathered  to 
gether  her  small  possessions  swiftly,  and 
put  on  her  hat.  "You  will  explain  to 
Mr.  Satterlee." 

Mrs.  Satterlee  came  forward  with  her 
hand  outstretched.  They  were  perfectly 
natural  now,  both  of  them,  with  the  swift 
self -recovery  of  women. 

"  It  is  good-by  until  to-morrow  only, 
then,  and  I  can't  tell  you  how  much  ob 
liged  I  am." 

"  It  is  I  who  ought  to  be  obliged,  no 
doubt,"  replied  Eleanour  Clarke,  with  a 
pale  smile,  "  but  it  has  been — rather  sud 
den,  and  I  am  a — little  dazed."  She  cast 
a  look  about  her.  "  Good-by,"  she  said, 
and  was  gone. 

Isabel,  left  alone,  leaned  for  a  mo 
ment  heavily  on  the  table,  her  color 
changing  from  red  to  white;  she  stared 
another  moment  blankly  at  the  shining 
keys,  then,  sitting  down,  fell  upon  the 
typewriter  with  her  long  hands,  in  a 
kind  of  rage  of  doing. 


152  Harper's  Novelettes 

Her  husband,  coming  in  an  hour  later, 
stopped  abruptly  on  the  threshold.  He 
cast  a  quick  glance  about  the  room  and 
then  at  his  wife. 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?"  he  asked, 
sharply.  «  Where  is  Miss  Clarke  ?" 

Isabel,  leaning  back  in  the  typewriter's 
chair,  told  him,  with  a  smile. 

"  The  whole  thmg  strikes  me  as  Quix 
otic  to  a  degree,"  said  Satterlee,  dryly. 
He  stood  by  his  desk,  whither  he  had 
walked  at  the  conclusion  of  her  state 
ment,  and  moved  the  papers  impatiently. 
There  was  every  shade  of  annoyance  and 
disapproval  in  his  voice. 

"  It  must  of  course  strike  you  as — sud 
den,"  said  Isabel,  with  unexpected  meek 
ness,  "  and  I  admit  I  owe  you  a  sincere 
apology, — but  I  hoped  you  would  approve. 
Eleanour  Clarke  needs  a  vacation." 

"About  that  there  cannot  be  two 
opinions,"  replied  Richard,  with  uncon 
scious  emphasis;  there  was  almost  an 
implication  in  the  glance  he  cast  at  his 
wife, — so  cool  and  composed,  so  redolent 
of  summer  idleness,  of  an  infinity  of 
doing  nothing.  He  was  instantly  aware 
of  it  and  ashamed. 

"  Of  course  it  is  very  kind, — not  to  say 
Quixotic, — on  your  part,  and  there  is  no 


Marriage  Question  "      153 


earthly  reason  why  you  should  not  invite 
Miss  Clarke  and  her  mother  to  visit  you 
if  you  choose.  I  can  easily  procure  a  sub 
stitute,  —  if  you  had  done  me  the  honor 
to  consult  me,"  he  ended,  dryly. 

"It  was  outrageous  in  me,  of  course," 
said  Isabel,  still  meekly;  "but  you  see  I 
knew  Miss  Clarke  would  never  consent,  — 
in  any  other  way,  —  and  unless  she  could 
go  as  a  paid  companion,  she  would  not 
feel  she  could  go  at  all." 

"  Then  pay  her,"  said  Eichard. 

Isabel  shook  her  head,  controlling  a 
climbing  knot  in  her  throat.  Was  it 
necessary  for  him  to  make  it  so  very 
obvious  ? 

"It  wouldn't  work.  Besides,  —  I  really 
mean  that  I  want  to  come.  If  you  knew 
how  tired  I  am  of  doing  nothing,  —  do  let 
me  try,  Richard!" 

"  There  is  no  necessity  for  my  wife  to 
drudge  through  the  summer  either,"  ob 
served  masculine  inconsistency  stiffly. 
"If  there  were,  —  it  would  be  quite  an 
other  matter." 

"  There  are  different  kinds  of  necessi 
ties.  I  admit  I  have  taken  an  outrageous 
liberty,  but  —  couldn't  you  stand  me  —  just 
one  month,  Richard?"  —  the  little  laugh 
with  which  she  said  it  ended,  to  her 
horror,  in  something  like  a  sob. 


154  Harper's  Novelettes 

Richard  was  horrified  in  his  turn.  He 
had  not  caught  the  sob,  but  her  words 
touched  so  very  near  the  spring  of  his 
reluctance.  He  flushed  as  he  hastily  took 
up  a  paper  and  gazed  with  great  intent- 
ness  at  it, — upside  down. 

"That,  of  course,  doesn't  enter;  I 
should  only  be  too  honored — "  Then  his 
annoyance  again  overcame  him.  He 
flung  down  the  paper.  "  But  you  must 
remember  this  is  a  place  of  business.  I 
should  much  prefer  to  know  you  were 
enjoying  yourself  at  the  shore,  and  any 
professional  typewriter — you  must  excuse 
me — would  serve  me  quite  as  well." 

"  Better,  no  doubt,"  said  Isabel,  smiling 
resolutely;  "but — you  said  last  week  this 
was  the  dull  time.  I  promise  not  to  be 
troublesome  in  any  way.  Won't  you  let 
me  at  least  try?" 

"  You  couldn't  possibly  stand  the  com 
muting." 

"I  don't  intend  to;  I  think  you  find  it 
rather  hard  yourself.  It  would  be  much 
better  only  to  go  down  Saturdays." 

"You  forget  that  the  house  is  closed 
and  the  servants  gone." 

"  We  don't  want  them ;  I've  thought  of 
all  that.  Do  please  let  me  arrange — 

"  There  are  the  children — ' 

"  They    will    be    perfectly    well    and 


"The  Marriage  Question"     155 

happy.  Miss  Clarke  will  telephone  ev 
ery  day,  and  we  shall  have  Sundays 
with  them." 

Satterlee  was  silent;  there  was  indeed 
nothing  left  to  say.  He  glanced  moodily 
at  his  wife's  face,  fresh  and  fair. 

"  One  of  her  usual  caprices,"  he 
thought,  "  and  she  will  be  heartily  sick 
of  it  by  the  end  of  a  week." 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  aloud,  "  if  you 
put  it  that  way,  there  is  no  more  to 
be  said." 

"I  may  try?" 

"  You  may  try."  He  could  not  repress 
the  slight  shrug  with  which  he  acceded. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Isabel,  cordially. 
"  Then  I'll  just  finish  this." 

She  bent  her  head  above  the  machine, 
and  Richard  sat  devouring  his  annoyance 
in  silence,  while  his  wife's  fingers  filled 
the  room, — not  with  the  steady  click  to 
which  his  ear  was  accustomed,  but  with 
positive  little  taps,  very  characteristic  of 
Isabel,  he  thought.  As  he  glanced  at  the 
industrious  figure  opposite,  he  bit  his  lip, 
smitten  suddenly  with  the  absurdity  of 
the  situation.  It  would  be  a  singular  ex 
perience  to  have  her  opposite  him  day 
after  day,  except  across  an  elaborately 
appointed  table.  Of  course,  too,  she 
would  be  more  or  less  on  his  hands  out- 


156  Harper's  Novelettes 

side  the  office  as  well;  not  that  she  was 
a  woman  to  be  much  on  any  one's  hand — 
he  did  her  that  justice,  she  was  extreme 
ly  independent, — but  there  would  be  none 
of  her  set,  nor  the  children.  After  all, 
it  might  be  better  to  commute. 

Meanwhile  Isabel  typed  steadily  on, 
and  as  she  did  so  another  quality  in  her 
became  evident — the  rare,  the  golden 
quality  of  concentration.  She  knit  her 
brows  and  wrestled  silently  with  the  un 
accustomed  legal  phrases,  bringing  to  the 
accomplishment  of  the  task  so  much  con 
science  that  she  partially  forgot  her  hus 
band's  presence  and  the  strained  point  of 
the  situation.  When  at  last  she  brought 
him  the  pile  of  neatly  typed  legal  pages, 
it  was  almost  without  embarrassment,  and 
she  awaited  his  verdict  like  a  child. 

"Is  there  anything  else?"  she  asked, 
glancing  at  the  desk. 

"  No ;  you  have  been  very  industrious, 
• — and  you  type  very  well  indeed,"  he  was 
forced  into  adding  with  some  surprise. 

"I  shall  do  better  with  practice. 
Then,  if  there  is  really  nothing  more,  I 
will  go."  She  took  up  her  big  hat,  pinned 
it  on,  and  slowly  drew  on  her  gloves. 
"  You  were  not  coming  down  to-day  ?" 

Richard  hesitated,  then  seized  the  bait. 
"  No;  I  want  to  look  up  some  rulings." 


44  The  Marriage  Question  "      157 

Isabel  nodded.  "  Would  you  like  me  to 
come  up  to-morrow?  Miss  Clarke  will 
need  all  her  time — oh,  I  forgot — will  you 
please  send  her  the  exact  train-time? — 
and  I  told  her  you  would  see  them  com 
fortably  down." 

Satterlee  turned  and  looked  with  sud 
den  kindliness  at  his  wife. 

"  No,  don't  come ;  I'll  close  up  early 
to-morrow.  I  shall  put  you  on  your  car, 
of  course."  He  reached  for  his  hat. 

A  moment  later  he  stood  looking  after 
the  car  which  bore  his  wife  away,  with 
some  contrition. 

"  After  all,"  he  thought,  "  there  aren't 
so  many  women  of  her  set  who  would  take 
the  trouble.  Of  course  the  thing  is  go 
ing  to  be  a  confounded  nuisance,  but 
she  doesn't  realize  that,  and  I  needn't 
have  been  so  beastly  unsympathetic." 

He  was  grateful  to  her  again,  as  he 
walked  up-town,  for  the  breathing-space 
she  had  so  opportunely  furnished  him — 
in  which  to  look  over  the  ground  and  col 
lect  himself.  It  was  not  until  hours  later 
that  it  occurred  to  him  to  wonder  how  she 
knew  he  was  not  intending  to  go  down  ? 
*  His  compunction  had  lost  nothing  next 
day  when  he  delivered  his  two  charges 
into  his  wife's  cordial  hands.  Whatever 
of  embarrassment  he  might  have  felt  in 


158  Harper's  Novelettes 

the  rapid  readjustment  of  relations,  tho 
night's  reflection  had  restored  to  the  man 
of  the  world  his  self-possession;  he  had 
cordially  endorsed  Isabel's  invitation  and 
made  the  journey  delightful  to  his  vis 
itors.  Mrs.  Clarke  was  a  fine,  worn, 
elder  edition  of  her  daughter,  and  Sat- 
terlee  watched,  not  without  emotion,  the 
brightening  of  their  city-tired  eyes  when 
the  blue  waters  bore  them  their  first 
breath  of  sea  air.  In  the  girl's  sigh 
he  read  a  vast  and  pathetic  expansion; 
some  thin  armor  of  manner  fell  sudden 
ly  away. 

"  Oh,"  she  breathed,  "  it  was  good  of 
Mrs.  Satterlee  to  give  us — to  give  my 
mother  this  chance!" 

It  was  good  of  Isabel,  Richard  felt, 
when  he  consigned  them  to  a  greeting  so 
cordial.  The  large  guest-room  had  been 
filled  with  flowers  by  the  children ;  Isabel 
herself  had  a  thousand  preoccupations  for 
their  comfort,  and  presently  advanced  as 
many  charming  prospects  for  their  days. 
Under  the  spell  of  her  entire  naturalness, 
even  Eleanour  Clarke's  constraint  wore 
subtly  away.  It  was  certainly  good  of 
Isabel,  thought  Richard. 

"  It  will  do  them  no  end  of  good, — 
and  was  no  end  good  of  you  to  think  of 
it.  I  was  a  brute,"  he  said  that  evening. 


"The  Marriage  Question"      159 

"  I  am  glad  you  approve,"  she  an 
swered,  quietly. 

It  was  a  novel  experience  to  Isabel 
Satterlce  to  rise  early  for  a  definite  pur 
pose  unconnected  with  the  pursuit  of 
pleasure,  and  once  seated  beside  Richard 
in  the  train,  she  was  conscious  of  an 
excitement  she  had  not  previously  reck 
oned  with.  Tinder  certain  circumstances, 
to  travel  with  one's  own  husband  becomes 
the  boldest  of  adventures. 

Richard  was  half  amusedly,  half 
awkwardly  alive  to  the  oddity  of  the  situ 
ation.  To  his  masculine  eyes  his  wife 
wore  somehow  a  look  of  difference.  He 
vaguely  missed  the  plumes  and  furbelows 
and  long  skirts  which  became  her  so  well ; 
yet  it  occurred  to  him  that  she  was  look 
ing  usually  distinguished. 

"  She  is  dressing  the  part,"  he  decided, 
with  some  secret  entertainment. 

"  You  will  want  to  go  up  to  the  house," 
he  observed,  as  they  emerged  from  the 
station  after  an  almost  silent  journey. 
"I  will  put  you  in  a  cab  and  you  can 
come  down  when  you  feel  like  it." 

"No,"  said  Isabel,  quickly.  "The 
house  can  wait;  I  am  going  to  the  office." 

If  this  excellent  promptness  was  ex 
pected  to  win  approval,  she  was  disap- 


160  Harper's  Novelettes 

pointed;  it  annoyed  Richard  instead.  He 
felt  the  yoke  settling  about  him,  but  ho 
merely  answered  shortly : 

"  All  right.  I've  got  to  hurry  and  look 
over  some  papers  before  a  man  comes." 
And  straightway  Isabel  was  a  witness  for 
the  first  time  in  her  husband  of  that 
change,  incomprehensible  to  the  average 
woman  and  proportionally  resented  by 
her,  which  falls  upon  the  man  the  mo 
ment  he  is  face  to  face  with  his  work, 
be  that  what  it  may; — the  sudden  banish 
ing  of  the  personal  which  leaves  most 
women  feeling  cold. 

Possibly  Isabel  was  not  an  average 
•woman,  or  possibly  with  this  too  she  had 
reckoned,  for  she  stepped  into  the  ele 
vator  with  unabated  energy. 

"Will  you  please  tell  me  what  you 
wish  done  first?"  she  asked,  slipping  off 
her  hat  and  gloves  and  uncovering  the 
typewriter  with  a  despatch  for  which 
Richard  was  unprepared.  The  personal 
note  had  vanished  also  from  her  voice, 
and  Richard,  looking  up,  found  her 
standing  like  a  respectful  subordinate 
awaiting  orders.  He  repressed  an  incli 
nation  to  laugh — she  was  taking  the 
game  so  seriously;  then  he  glanced  at 
his  papers  and  his  business  preoccupa 
tion  returned. 


"The  Marriage  Question "      161 

"Can  you  take  my  dictation?"  he 
asked,  dubiously. 

Isabel  nodded.  She  sat  down  and 
drew  towards  her  pencil  and  pad.  Rich 
ard  began  dictating — slowly  at  first,  then, 
as  he  became  immersed,  faster  and  faster, 
and  Isabel  with  knit  brows  dotted  and 
dashed  after. 

"Copy  those  out  at  once,"  he  said, 
without  looking  up.  "  They  want  to 
catch  the  Chicago  mail." 

The  morning  wore  away  almost  in  si 
lence.  Once  or  twice  Isabel  referred  a 
phrase,  and  from  time  to  time  she  rose 
and  laid  a  neat  pile  of  pages  on  her  hus 
band's  desk,  which  he  acknowledged  by  a 
mute  nod.  The  "man"  came  and  was 
introduced  into  the  inner  office.  He  hap 
pened  to  be  of  their  set  socially,  and  for 
a  moment  Richard  looked  a  halting  doubt 
whether  to  present  him  to  Isabel  or  not, 
but  she  kept  her  head  resolutely  bent 
and  ticked  steadily  on,  and  the  gentle 
man  departed  without  a  glance  in  her 
direction.  This  first  obliteration  of  her 
identity  amused  Isabel,  but  she  soon 
found  enough  to  do  in  wrestling  with 
unfamiliar  terms,  and  ceased  to  take  note 
of  the  opening  and  closing  of  doors. 

At  noon  Richard  suddenly  resumed 
human  relations.  He  came  and  stood 


162  Harper's  Novelettes 

beside  her;  there  was  even  a  little  smile 
in  his  eyes  at  her  exaggerated  industry. 
The  day  was  hot,  and  damp  curls  of  hair 
clung  to  Isabel's  forehead;  something  of 
the  spick-and-span  freshness  of  the  morn 
ing  had  departed  from  her  aspect,  but 
she  typed  steadily  on.  It  occurred  to 
Richard  that  he  had  never  seen  her  look 
like  this  before. 

"  You  don't  have  to  work  yourself  to 
death,"  he  said. 

Isabel  sat  back  and  looked  up  at  him, 
Then  she  laughed. 

"I  am  having  a  splendid  time,"  she 
said,  and  the  zest  of  her  eyes  bore  out 
the  words.  "Will  you  correct  that, 
please?" 

"After  lunch.  Where  may  I  take 
you?" 

"Nowhere;  I'm  going  to  lunch  here." 
She  rose  as  she  spoke,  and  producing  a 
dainty  hamper,  proceeded  to  open  it. 
Richard  hesitated  between  relief  and 
courtesy. 

"You  can't  live  on  sandwiches;  you 
aren't  used  to  it." 

"  I  don't  intend  to,"  she  answered, 
cheerfully,  over  her  shoulder.  In  a 
twinkling  she  had  spread  a  spotless  nap 
kin  on  the  airiest  of  the  broad  window- 
ledges,  and  proceeded  to  set  forth  a  dish 


"The  Marriage  Question "      163 

of  salad,  bread-and-butter  cut  delicately 
thin,  a  couple  of  perfect  peaches,  and  a 
pint  bottle  of  claret.  All  that  looked 
uncommonly  good,  it  struck  Kichard 
hungrily,  and  he  observed  with  a  dis 
tinct  disgust  that  it  was  obviously  ap 
portioned  for  but  one. 

"  There !"  said  Isabel,  with  a  cheerful 
nod,  as  she  installed  herself  in  the  breezy 
window  and  drew  forth  a  new  magazine. 
"  I  shall  cool  off  until  my  hour  is  up." 

Richard  smiled  and  went  off  without 
further  words;  when  the  door  had  closed 
behind  him,  Isabel  also  smiled,  a  trifle 
subtly.  She  had  expended  much  thought 
upon  that  lunch — for  one. 

Her  husband  meanwhile,  walking  to 
wards  his  customary  lunch-place,  ex 
perienced  a  curiously  compounded  senti 
ment  of  relief  and  resentful  surprise. 
Quite  evidently  he  need  not  have  wor 
ried  as  to  her  being  a  burden  on  his 
hands;  she  was  well  able  to  manage  for 
herself — uncommonly  able,  apparently, — 
apparently,  too,  she  meant  to  let  him 
understand  so.  And  of  course  this  was 
very  convenient; — nevertheless  he  recog 
nized  a  duty  towards  her  and  should  in 
vite  her  to  lunch  and  dine  regularly. 
He  would  take  her  to  dinner  at  the  club 
to-night; — it  would  indeed  be  decidedly 


164  Harper's  Novelettes 

piquant  to  gather  her  first  impressions 
of  a  legal  career. 

Having  arrived  at  this  conclusion,  he 
had  a  recrudescence  of  the  forenoon's  un 
pleasant  sensations  when  his  wife  prompt 
ly  but  graciously  declined  his  invitation. 

"  You  can't  starve  yourself,"  he  in 
sisted,  rather  sharply. 

Isabel  only  smiled.  She  explained  that 
she  had  "things"  to  do  at  the  house, 
and  passed  him  a  formal  promise  to 
dine  well — alone. 

That  house,  to  which  he  always  made 
late  and  reluctant  returns  on  such  occa 
sions  as  business  detained  him  for  the 
night,  wore  a  pleasant  difference  to-night, 
of  which  he  was  sensitively  conscious  the 
moment  he  crossed  the  threshold.  With 
out  analyzing  it,  he  accounted  for  it 
vaguely  on  the  ground  of  feminine  pres 
ence.  The  gas  was  burning  low,  the 
evening  paper  was  spread  readably,  and 
a  general  lived-in  air  pervaded  the  rooms 
even  in  their  summer  undress.  His  own 
exhaled  a  seductive  order  and  rest. 
Isabel,  however,  had  already  retired,  and 
again  he  was  not  sure  whether  this  was 
a  relief  or  a  disappointment. 

There  was  something  so  completely  un 
natural  in  the  situation  that  it  kept  him 
awake  for  a  time.  Vaguely  he  misgave 


44  The  Marriage  Question  "      165 

that  he  was  being  made  the  subject  of 
some  kind  of  experiment,  which  he  was 
prepared  to  resent  in  advance.  Then  he 
remembered  that  all  kinds  of  notions 
were  epidemic  among  women  nowadays, 
and  that  probably  Isabel  had  contracted 
a  feverish  germ  of  efficiency  which  might 
be  safely  left  to  burn  itself  out.  In  this 
wise  conclusion  he  fell  asleep. 

The  odor  of  newly  made  coffee  saluted 
him  desirably  the  next  morning  when  he 
strolled  into  the  breakfast  -  room,  and 
Isabel  smiled  at  him  from  a  table  tempt 
ingly  set  forth  with  coffee,  rolls,  and 
cream.  Richard  decided  to  invite  him 
self  to  breakfast  on  the  spot. 

"  That  smells  powerful  good,"  he  said, 
enviously.  "  Is  there  enough  for  two  ?" 

"Dear,  Pm  afraid  there  isn't,"  replied 
Isabel,  peering  sympathetically  into  the 
pot.  "And  no  hot  water,  either!  Could 
you  wait?  You  see,  I  naturally  thought 
you  would  prefer  the  club.  I  can  make 
you  some  to-morrow." 

"  Oh,  don't  trouble ;  it's  not  the  slight 
est  consequence,"  said  Richard.  He  de 
parted  with  an  elaborately  friendly  nod, 
but  feeling  distinctly — and  he  recognized, 
unreasonably — hurt.  Isabel,  watching  his 
tall  figure  down  the  path,  smiled;  then 
her  eyes  irrationally  filled  with  tears. 


1 66  Harper's  Novelettes 

She  was  at  her  desk,  however,  bright 
and  busy,  when  her  husband  arrived. 

"You  are  punctuality  itself,"  he  said, 
a  trifle  formally,  as  he  passed  to  his. 

And  the  morning  and  the  evening  made 
the  second  day. 

They  made  also  the  third  and  fourth 
and  a  whole  summer  sequence  after. 
Richard  had  been  too  proud  to  hint 
breakfast  again,  but  his  way  lying 
through  the  breakfast-room,  he  strolled 
in  the  second  morning  with  the  air  of 
one  who  expects  nothing  of  destiny. 
Two  cups  and  plates  greeted  him  cheer 
fully  this  time,  and  Isabel  nodded  across 
a  platter  of  his  favorite  melons.  Richard 
unbent  promptly. 

"This  is  good,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh 
of  satisfaction  presently,  giving  himself 
up  to  the  luxury  of  a  second  cup, — and 
he  meant  more  than  the  coffee. 

It  was  strangely  pleasant  to  have  his 
wife  opposite  him  in  the  intimacy  of  a 
tete-a-tete;  and  this  Isabel,  trim  and 
brisk  in  her  business  suit,  waiting  upon 
him  herself,  making  the  coffee  with  her 
own  hands,  and  ordering  him  to  get  the 
sugar-bowl,  was  a  different  personality 
from  the  Isabel  of  the  laced  and  flowing 
gowns  who  descended  indifferently  and 
late  to  a  state  breakfast. 


"The  Marriage  Question**     167 

"How  much  jollier  it  is  without  the 
servants !"  he  exclaimed.  "  I  have  an  un 
holy  feeling  of  taking  liberties  with  my 
own  house, — don't  you?" 

"  I  am  just  finding  out  what  a  nice 
house  it  is,"  said  Isabel,  with  conviction. 

Life  became  a  constant  "finding  out" 
to  her  as  the  days  wore  on. 

She  did  her  work  well  and  with  few 
words.  And  her  improvement  was  rapid. 
She  had  already  travelled  a  long  way  in 
her  grasp  of  his  world  since  the  day  when 
she  confided  him  her  awakened  sympathy 
for  two  of  his  clients — John^Doe  and 
Richard  Roe — and  her  sometime  wonder 
that  any  two  men  could  achieve  so  many 
kinds  of  trouble.  They  had  made  a  great 
deal  of  history  together  since  then.  To 
gether — that  was  the  key-word — the  great 
thing;  this  common  bond  of  little  things 
knitting  their  days  in  one.  To  Isabel  it 
was  as  if  for  the  first  time  she  were 
living  with  her  husband.  Not  wifehood, 
nor  motherhood,  had  brought  her  this  as  a 
continuous  experience;  those  had  brought 
consummate  moments,  after  which  Rich 
ard  drifted  away  and  left  her  stranded  in 
an  outer  world,  or  in  an  inner  corner 
of  the  real  world  outside.  But  this — 

It  moved  her  with  a  great  compunction, 
and  she  went,  on  her  next  visit  to  S , 


1 68  Harper's  Novelettes 

and  sought  out  Eleanour  Clarke  sitting 
apart  on  the  shore.  The  ex-secretary  was 
prettier  with  every  week,  the  rose  and  tan 
of  the  sea  and  sun  vivifying  her  delicate 
face.  It  was  Isabel  who  looked  a  trifle 
dragged,  if  either  of  them,  as  Richard 
found  himself  remarking  at  lunch  with  a 
movement  of  sympathy. 

"  The  children  are  looking  splendidly," 
said  Isabel.  "  How  am  I  ever  to  thank 
you?  And  you — do  you  find  time  heavy 
on  your  hands  ?  Are  you  sure  you  do  not 
want  to  go  back?" 

"  Not  now,"  Eleanour  answered  her. 
"Just  at  first  I  did.  I  am  used,  you 
see,  to  working  steadily.  But  it  has 
meant  a  great  deal  to  me — this  rest  and 
time  to  think  things  out.  I  was  a  little 
worn,  I  think,  and  for  mother  this  has 
been  like  a  miracle."  She  hesitated  a 
moment,  then  lifted  her  eyes  with  grave 
directness  to  Isabel.  "  I  want  to  thank 
you — now,  Mrs.  Satterlee." 

Isabel  did  not  speak ;  she  was  profound 
ly  moved. 

"And  you,  Mrs.  Satterlee?"  asked 
Eleanour  Clarke,  quietly. 

"I,"  said  Isabel— "I  am  just  begin 
ning  to  live." 

They  were  silent  after  this,  looking  out 
over  the  rocks  to  the  breadth  of  blue 


"  The  Marriage  Question  "     169 

sea.  When  they  returned  to  the  house 
presently,  talking,  as  women  will,  of 
trivial  things,  each  was  sentient  of  an 
unspoken  knowledge  between  them — the 
foundation  of  one  of  those  friendships 
which  men  deny  to  women,  and  of  which., 
in  fact,  only  a  few,  either  of  men  or 
women,  are  capable,  since  its  essential 
condition  is  a  high  reserve. 

Isabel  awoke  the  following  Monday 
with  a  keen  sense  of  anticipation.  She 
looked  forward  alike  to  the  office  rou 
tine  and  the  informal  housekeeping,  and 
sank  into  the  car-seat  with  a  sigh  of 
satisfaction. 

"  What  a  comfort  to  get  rid  of  that 
eternal  commuting!"  exclaimed  Richard, 
as  he  drew  down  the  car-blind.  "We 
don't  have  to  do  this  for  another  week." 

Isabel's  conscience  registered  a  pang 
for  all  her  husband's  years  of  commuting. 
She  was  learning  to  weigh  with  some 
wonder  and  more  respect  the  stores  of 
masculine  patience  and  good -will  an 
nually  consumed  in  this  sacrifice  on  the 
family  altar,  as  she  encountered  Rich 
ard's  many  fellow  victims,  perspiring  but 
devoted,  rushing  to  and  from  the  town. 

Meanwhile  Richard,  adaptable  as  man 
is,  and  straightforwardly  made  as  man  is 


i7o  Harper's  Novelettes 

also,  had  accepted  the  status  quo  with 
filial  ease  and  simplicity.  Twenty  times 
a  day  (it  was  perhaps  the  finest  compli 
ment  he  paid  her)  he  spoke  to  her,  put 
into  her  hand  or  took  from  it  a  paper, 
issued  a  brief  command,  as  if  she  had 
been  the  machine  she  operated;  but  on 
the  twenty-first  he  addressed  her  with 
such  an  explicit  note  of  personality  as 
had  been  absent  from  his  voice  and  eye 
for  long.  Occasionally  her  inexpertness 
drew  from  him  a  quick  impatience,  and 
Isabel  silently  swallowed  these  small  sur 
prises,  bethinking  herself  she  was  official. 

Eventually  she  came  to  pay  him  back 
in  his  own  coin,  and  this  the  man  found 
distinctly  unfit.  On  the  first  occasion 
he  looked  up  with  a  quick  frown,  but  the 
sight  of  Isabel's  unconscious  head  and 
flying  fingers  set  him  smiling  suddenly 
over  his  papers. 

He  came  back  early  from  lunch  this 
Monday  (he  was  always  coming  back 
early  nowadays),  and  surprised  this 
ardent  worker  asleep  in  her  chair,  her 
book  fallen  to  the  floor.  Richard  smiled 
as  he  picked  it  up — it  was  Biles  on  Bills 
— and  with  it  in  his  hand  he  stood  con 
templating  his  wife.  The  day  had  been 
scorching*,  and  there  were  slight  dark 
circles  under  her  eyes  and  a  suggestion 


44  The  Marriage  Question  "      171 

of  pallor — just  that  faint,  ennobling  hall 
mark  which  says  so  clearly,  "I  have  la 
bored."  It  stirred  Kichard  with  a  kind 
of  tenderness  which  would  have  been  out 
of  place  towards  the  brilliant  and  unfa- 
tigued  Isabel  of  other  days,  and  he  bent 
and  kissed  his  wife's  hair,  very  lightly, 
but  at  the  touch  she  opened  her  eyes, 
and  started  bolt  upright  at  sight  of  her 
husband's  face. 

"I  have  kept  you  waiting!"  she  ex 
claimed,  with  mortification.  "  I  had 
fallen  asleep!" 

"  Don't  you  think  you  might  let  up  a 
little  on  this?"  replied  her  husband. 
"  You  are  fagged  out." 

Isabel  knew  an  instant  foolish  and 
feminine  pang  for  appearances,  but  she 
rallied  stoutly. 

"I  am  not  in  the  least  tired;  it  was 
only  the  heat." 

"Well,  wait  one  moment."  Her  hus 
band  laid  two  detaining  hands  on  her 
shoulders.  "  You  don't  go  back  to  that 
desk  until—  At  least,  I  beg  your  par 
don,"  he  added,  awkwardly,  removing  his 
hands  and  coloring,  "but  won't  you 
promise  to  dine  with  me  to-night?  You 
never  saw  a  roof -garden,  did  you?  We 
will  go  and  refresh  ourselves  in  a  cool 
corner  I  know ;  is  it  agreed  ?" 


1 72  Harper's  Novelettes 

Isabel  hesitated  one  moment. 

"It  is  agreed,"  she  said,  and  rising 
quickly,  went  over  to  the  desk.  But  all 
the  afternoon's  sober  routine  could  not 
bar  out  a  little  subconscious  antici 
pation,  which  now  and  again  brought 
their  eyes  together  with  a  laugh  at  their 
own  youth. 

They  fared  forth  that  evening  as  gayly 
as  two  children  to  the  garden  in  the  sky, 
where  a  river  breeze  blew  and  where,  in 
spite  of  the  gayety  about  them,  or  because 
of  it,  they  were  deliciously  withdrawn 
and  secluded  in  their  cool  corner.  They 
were  both  honestly  tired  with  their  day's 
work,  and  gave  themselves  up  with  re 
lief  to  the  repose  and  unrestraint  of  the 
hour.  At  first  they  scarcely  talked  at 
all;  it  was  entertainment  enough  to  sit 
and  watch  their  fellow  diners;  but  later 
they  talked  a  great  deal,  smiling  over  the 
humors  of  the  scene  and  exchanging  sym 
pathies  over  the  pathos  of  the  common 
humanity  about  them,  till,  driven  back 
by  this  to  their  own  immediate  life 
share,  they  fell  into  discussion  of  Rich 
ard's  impending  cases.  Last  of  all,  over 
his  cigar  and  her  coffee,  they  fell  into  a 
silence  which  was  also  best  of  all.  In 
one  of  its  moments,  Richard,  glancing 
across  at  his  wife's  face,  knew  suddenly 


44  The  Marriage  Question  "      173 

that  this  was  what  he  had-  dreamed  of  all 
his  life — this  companionship  which  was  as 
far  from  society  as  it  was  from  soli 
tude,  which  was,  indeed,  a  kind  of  com 
panioned  solitude.  And  he  had  a  pas 
sionate  moment  of  gratitude  that  it  was 
his  wife  who  sat  there,  not  another. 

"Are  you  still  so  warm?"  said  Isabel, 
smiling  at  his  flushed  cheeks. 

But  Richard,  signalling  the  waiter, 
made  himself  very  busy  with  the  ridicu 
lously  small  bill,  to  which  he  added  a 
lavish  tip,  and  his  smile  was  for  once 
as  subtle  as  a  woman's. 

"  I  haven't  had  so  much  fun  for  my 
money  in  years,"  he  said. 

"  Nor  I— 

"  Then  why  not  every  night  3"  —  he 
caught  up  the  admission  quickly.  "  I 
know  so  many  jolly  places — and  you 
know  nothing  of  the  city.  Do !" 

"  You  really  want  me  ?" 

He  did  not  answer,  but  he  looked 
at  her. 

From  that  time  a  new  life  began  for 
them.  They  dined  together  nightly,  wan 
dering  inconstantly  as  the  mood  im 
pelled  them,  and  wondering  as  constantly 
at  the  resources  of  the  cosmic  city.  That 
well-regulated  institution  the  club  saw 
them  but  seldom.  It  was  a  surprise 


174  Harper's  Novelettes 

to  her  husband,  but  a  far  greater  to  Isa 
bel  herself,  to  find  how  rich  was  her  en 
dowment  of  adaptability — that  precious 
capacity  for  living,  so  much  rarer  in 
women  than  in  men,  so  rare  in  high  de 
gree  in  either.  It  made  her  an  essential 
ly  good  comrade,  bringing  to  all  their 
little  adventures  that  wide-eyed  interest 
and  tolerant  capacity  for  small  pleas 
ures  -which  render  the  society  of  some 
beings  an  eternal  feast.  Under  it  all 
she  was  learning. 

Men  whom  she  had  hitherto  associated 
solely  with  the  champagne  frappe  of 
idle  dinner-tables  she  met  now  working 
like  steam-engines  and  solacing  hurried 
lunches  with  the  homelier  beverage  of 
beer^ — and  she  took  the  discovery  for 
symbolic.  Everywhere  so  much  more 
malt, — so  much  less  fizz  than  she  had 
dreamed!  And  everywhere  man,  on  the 
whole,  a  better  and  a  simpler  animal  than 
he  shows  to  be  in  drawing-rooms.  She 
wondered  anew  at  the  eternal  disadvan 
tage  of  this  meeting-ground  of  the  sexes. 

The  remainder  of  the  summer  ran  away 
with  appalling  swiftness,  punctuated  by 
visits  to  riotous  babies  and  an  ex- 
secretary  who  grew  prettier  every  week. 
One  day  Richard,  coming  into  the  office, 
laid  a  paper  on  his  wife's  desk. 


"The  Marriage  Question "      175 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  abstractedly. 

"  Your  salary ;  I  forgot  it  till  now." 

To  his  amusement  she  took  it  up  sober 
ly  and  looked  at  it  a  long  time. 

"Well,"  he  said,  quizzically,  "how 
does  it  feel  to  earn  your  bread  by  the 
sweat  of  your  brow?" 

"It  feels  very  good.  Have  I  really 
earned  all  that?" 

"All  that!"  Kichard  could  not  sup 
press  a  smile.  He  recollected  other 
checks  in  the  past.  "Yes, — it  is  honest 
money, — you'  have  earned  every  cent  of  it. 
You  make  a  very  capable  private  secre 
tary;  I  will  give  you  a  recommendation 
any  time." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Isabel,  seriously. 
She  laid  the  check  aside  and  resumed 
her  typing;  but  Richard  continued  to 
lean  on  the  desk,  looking  down  at  her. 

"Next  Tuesday  is  the  15th;  does  it 
seem  possible!  You  will  want  to  go 
down,  of  course, — and  I  suppose  Miss 
Clarke  will  be  ready  to  return?" 

"  Yes, — I  suppose  she  will  be  ready." 

"And  you — you  will  be  more  than 
ready?" 

Isabel  struck  two  keys  together;  she 
waited  deliberately  to  disentangle  them 
before  she  replied. 

"Don't  talk  to  me  now,  Richard;  you 


1 76  Harper's  Novelettes 

are  making  me  make  a  dreadful  mess  of 
this  Latin.  Wait  till  lunch-time." 

lie  smiled,  fidgeted  restlessly  for  a 
few  moments,  and  finally  put  on  his  hat 
and  went  out.  The  Latin  came  to  an 
abrupt  standstill,  and  Isabel,  with  a  long 
breath,  leaned  back  in  her  chair. 

It  had  come  at  last! — and  she  was 
ready  for  it;  but  this  moment  of  extra 
preparation  had  seemed  nevertheless  as 
necessary  as  the  gathering  together  which 
precedes  a  spring.  It  had  come, — but 
how  little  as  she  had  foreseen!  She 
sprang  up  and  began  to  pace  the  office 
floor  with  quick,  excited  steps.  What  a 
tragic  farce  it  all  had  been!  She  smiled 
to  herself  now,  remembering  how  she  had 
girded  herself  and  gone  forth  to  heroic 
conquest, — where  scarce  an  effort  had 
been  required.  Her  husband's  heart  had 
come  home  to  hers  as  if  opportunity  had 
been  all  it  sought.  There  was  almost 
an  element  of  the  ludicrous  in  it.  Was 
it  possible,  she  asked  herself,  that  there 
was  no  marriage  question,  after  all? — 
that  all  that  was  needed  was  to  be  married 
enough? — that  what  men  craved  in  a  wife 
was,  first,  last,  and  always — a  comrade? 
A  comrade,  it  is  true,  capable  of  all, 
capable  of  those  breathless  moments 
which  are  the  mortal's  nearest  reach  to 


"The  Marriage  Question "      177 

immortality,  and  of  that  tender  maternity 
which  extends  from  a  man's  children  to 
himself,  but  capable  consummately  of 
comradeship,  of  loving  a  man's  work,  his 
life,  his  play,  because  it  is  all  his?  Was 
it  possible  that  nothing  else  was  needed? 
— and  that  nothing  less  would  serve? 

It  was  not  necessary  that  every  woman 
should  enter  her  husband's  office  to  learn 
this, — but  neither,  surely,  could  such  a 
bond  ever  exist  between  the  worker  and 
the  parasite.  She  put  it  aside  as  a  doubt 
to  be  resolved  in  the  larger  future 
whether  such  a  bond  were  possible,  either, 
between  the  worker  and  the  working 
drudge, — whether  the  happiest  "  domes 
tic  "  marriage  in  the  world  did  not  leave 
long  reaches  in  the  man's  existence  which 
the  merely  domestic  woman  could  not  fill, 
yet  which  must  inexorably  be  filled,  if 
not  by  one  means,  then  by  another. 

So  far  from  the  man's  point  of  view ; — 
there  remained  the  woman's !  She  walked 
restlessly  up  and  down  the  room.  Now 
she  wished  her  husband  would  return, — 
now  that  she  was  quite  ready.  And  she 
wished,  irrationally,  for  the  babies.  On 
the  strength  of  this  longing  she  rang 
them  up  over  the  long-distance  telephone, 
and  when  their  voices  chirped  in  her  ear, 
she  laughed  with  her  eyes  full  of  tears. 


178  Harper's  Novelettes 

It  did  her  good,  however,  and  she  went 
and  stood  quietly  looking  down  at  her 
husband's  desk  with  its  files  of  paper 
and  cumbered  pigeonholes.  It  seemed  a 
lifetime  ago  that  she  had  sat  there  twirl 
ing  the  yellow  strips  and  wondering 
about  Richard's  world — Richard's  world! 

He  had  come  in  so  quietly  that  she  did 
not  hear  him  till  he  spoke  beside  her. 

"  Marvelling  at  the  admired  disorder 
of  my  desk?" 

"  The  children  are  going  clamming, 
Richard." 

"  And  you  wish  you  were  ?  Poor 
child !" 

"  Richard,  there  is  something  I  want 
to  tell  you." 

"That  you  are  homesick?  Well,  I 
can't  blame  you.  You've  stuck  it  out 
splendidly,  but,  of  course — "  His  voice 
somehow  did  not  sound  quite  natural. 

He  too  had  been  preparing  himself, 
telling  himself  that  the  end  had  come; 
that  of  course  he  had  always  known  it 
couldn't  last;  it  had  been  a  glorious 
resurrection,  bitt  of  course  it  couldn't 
last.  He  must  make  up  his  mind  to  lose 
the  new-found  comrade  in  the  old  Isabel, 
as  was  inevitable  with  the  return  of  the 
old  habits  of  life,  demands  of  the  old 
imperious  preoccupations.  And  his  duty 


"The  Marriage  Question"      179 

— the  least  return  he  could  make  her — 
was  to  be  gracious  and  reasonable. 

"  You  asked  me  this  morning  if  I  want 
ed  to  go  down  to  S ." 

"  No,  excuse  me.  I  said  of  course  you 
did  want  to." 

"Well,  I  don't.  No,  please,  Eichard; 
let  me  speak."  She  began  to  pace  the 
floor  again  nervously;  then,  ashamed  of 
that  nervousness,  stopped  with  dignity  in 
front  of  her  husband  and  went  on  with 
quiet  energy. 

"  Richard,  when  I  came  into  the  office, 
it  was  for — well,  it  was  for  personal  rea 
sons;  it  doesn't  matter  what  they  were, 
for  they  no  longer  exist;  but  it's  enough 
to  say  that  I  wanted  to  get  nearer  you 
and  understand  your  life.  We  seemed 
to  have  drifted  away.  That  was  my  real 
reason  for  wanting  to  work.  No,  don't 
speak!  I  haven't  finished,  and  you  won't 
like  the  rest  so  well.  I  don't  know 
how  to  make  you  understand,  Richard, 
but  now  I  care  so  much  for  the  work 
that  I'm  afraid  I  shall  have  to  go 
on  working." 

He  was  walking  up  and  down  now, 
with  quick,  impatient  steps.  He  stopped 
at  last,  facing  his  wife,  and  gazed  intent 
ly  at  the  kindled  face,  the  figure  so  full 
of  health  and  suppressed  energy. 


180  Harperfs  Novelettes 

"I  understand — T  understand  perfect 
ly;  what  I  never  did  understand  is  how 
women  of  your  type  endure  their  lives. 
And  you  can't  think  I  don't  wish  it  were 
possible  to  go  on  this  way  always  ?  It  has 
been — well,  no  matter  what  it  has  been. 
The  point  is,  we  can't  relive  our  lives, 
and  I'm  afraid,  dear,  it  is  too  late!  For 
one  thing,  there  are  the  children." 

"Yes,  thank  Heaven,  there  are  tho 
children,"  said  their  mother,  with  vigor; 
"  I'll  do  better  by  them  than  I  was  done 
by.  The  baby  shall  have  a  profession,  for 
one  thing." 

Richard  smiled,  then  grew  grave  again. 

"  But  it  is  useless  to  pretend  they  need 
me  every  minute.  They  are  busy  all  day 
long;  that's  why  they  are  so  well  and 
jolly.  I  could  breakfast  with  them,  lunch 
with  them,  dine  with  them,  have  all  their 
leisure  hours  with  them;  I  don't  do  more 
than  that  now.  Everybody  is  busy  ex 
cept  me,  and  the  time  has  come  when  I 
have  got  to  be  busy  too — really  busy,  not 
play  busy." 

Richard,  looking  into  her  eyes,  was  sud 
denly  dazzled  by  what  he  saw  there.  Tho 
old  Isabel,  then,  was  gone?  She  need 
not  return?  She  could  not,  indeed,  re 
turn  !  The  bright  new  comrade,  the  equal 
friend,  need  not  be  lost?  In  an  instant 


"The  Marriage  Question "      181 

he  had  tho  vision,  and  it  led  him  down 
the  whole  vista  of  their  lives.  He  too 
asked  himself  suddenly  if  possibly  this 
was  what  marriage  meant — was  what 
life  meant? 

He  took  his  wife's  hands  in  his. 

"  Stay  with  me,  Isabel,"  and  quiet  as 
his  tone  was,  it  had  not  been  more  pas 
sionately  urgent  when  first  he  asked  it 
of  her.  "  Stay  with  me — if  you  can. 
Study  with  me,  read  law  with  me,  work 
with  me, — do  whatever  you  will, — but 
stay  with  me  if  you  can !" 

"  I  can — gladly,"  said  Isabel,  with  the 
old  humorous  smile,  above  which  her  eyes 
sent  a  ray  of  deepest  tenderness. 


THE  END 


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LOAN  DEPT 


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